ia 


GREEN     FIRE 


TRomance 


BY 


FIONA   MACLEOD 


1  While  still  1  may,  I  -write  for  you 
The  love  I  lived,  the  dream  I  knew ' 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS   PUBLISHERS 
1896 


Copyright,  1896,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  righti  reserved. 


TO 
ESCLARMOUNDO 

'  Nee  sine  te  nee  tecum  vivere  possum," — OVID 


2060B37 


"There  are  those  of  us  -who  -would  rather  be  -with  Catltal  of  the 
Woods,  and  be  drunken  tuith  green  fire,  than  gain  t/ie  paradise 
of  the  holy  Molios  -who  banned  him,  if  in  that  gain  ivere  to  be 
heard  no  more  the  earth-sioeet  ancient  song  of  the  blood  that  is 
in  the  reins  of  youth.  .  .  . 

"O  green  fire  of  life,  ptt/.te  of  the  world !  O  Love,  O  Youth, 
O  Dream  of  Dreams  I 

"THE  ANNIR  CHOILLE." 


CONTENTS 


BOOK   FIRST 
THE  BIRDS  OF  ANGUS  OGUE 

CHAP.  PAGE 

j.    EUCHARIS 3 

II.      THE  HOUSE  OF  KERIVAL 22 

III.  STORM 37 

IV.  THE  DREAM  AND  THE  DREAMERS        ....  53 
V.      THE  WALKER  IN  THE  NIGHT 69 

VI.      VIA  OSCURA 99 

VII.      "  DEIREADH    GACH     COGAIDH,    SITH "     (THE 

END   OF    ALL   WARFARE,    PEACE)    .      .      .  114 

VIII.      THE  UNFOLDING  OF  THE  SCROLL        ....  12$ 

BOOK   SECOND 

THE    HERDSMAN 

IX.     RETROSPECTIVE  :  FROM  THE  HEBRID  ISLES     .  149 

X.     AT  THE  EDGE  OF  THE  SHADOW 175 

XI.    MYSTERY 195 

XII.    IN  THE  GREEN  ARCADES 2O8 

XIII.  THE  MESSAGE       224 

XIV.  THE  LAUGHTER  OF  THE  KING 239 

BOOK  THIRD 

XV.      THE  BEAUTY  OF  THE  WORLD 259 


GREEN    FIRE 


BOOK  FIRST 
THE  BIRDS  OF  ANGUS  OGUE 


Hither  and  thither, 

And  to  and  fro, 
They  thrid  the  Maze 

Of  Weal  and  Woe  : 

O  winds  that  blow 
For  golden  weather 

Blow  me  the  birds, 

All  white  as  snow 
On  the  hillside  heather — 
Blow  me  the  birds 

That  Angus  know : 
Blow  me  the  birds, 

Be  it  Weal  or  Woe  ! 


CHAPTER  I 
EUCHARIS 

Then,  in  the  violet  forest,  all  a-bourgeon,  Eucharis 
said  to  me:  "It  is  Spring." — ARTHUR  RIMBAUD. 

AFTER  the  dim  purple  bloom  of  a  suspended 
spring,  a  green  rhythm  ran  from  larch  to 
thorn,  from  lime  to  sycamore;  spread  from 
meadow  to  meadow,  from  copse  to  copse, 
from  hedgerow  to  hedgerow.  The  black- 
thorn had  already  snowed  upon  the  nettle- 
garths.  In  the  obvious  nests  among  the 
bare  boughs  of  ash  and  beech  the  eggs  of  the 
blackbird  were  blue-green  as  the  sky  that 
March  had  bequeathed  to  April.  For  days 
past,  when  the  breath  of  the  equinox  had 
surged  out  of  the  west,  the  missel-thrushes 
had  bugled  from  the  wind-swayed  topmost 
branches  of  the  tallest  elms.  Everywhere  the 
green  rhythm  ran. 


4  Green  Fire 

In  every  leaf  that  had  uncurled  there  was  a 
delicate  bloom,  that  which  is  upon  all  things  in 
the  first  hours  of  life.  The  spires  of  the  grass 
were  washed  in  a  green,  dewy  light.  Out  of 
the  brown  earth  a  myriad  living  things  thrust 
tiny  green  shafts,  arrow-heads,  bulbs,  spheres, 
clusters.  Along  the  pregnant  soil  keener  ears 
than  ours  would  have  heard  the  stir  of  new 
life,  the  innumerous  whisper  of  the  bursting 
seed;  and,  in  the  wind  itself,  shepherding  the 
shadow-chased  sunbeams,  the  voice  of  that 
vernal  gladness  which  has  been  man's  clarion 
since  Time  began. 

Day  by  day  the  wind-wings  lifted  a  more 
multitudinous  whisper  from  the  woodlands. 
The  deep  hyperborean  note,  from  the  invisi- 
ble ocean  of  air,  was  still  audible:  within  the 
concourse  of  bare  boughs  which  lifted  against 
it,  that  surging  voice  could  not  but  have  an 
echo  of  its  wintry  roar.  In  the  sun-havens, 
however,  along  the  southerly  copses,  in 
daisied  garths  of  orchard-trees,  amid  the 
flowering  currant  and  guelder  and  lilac  bushes 
in  quiet  places  where  the  hives  were  all 
a-murmur,  the  wind  already  sang  its  lilt  of 


Eucharis  5 

spring.  From  dawn  till  noon,  from  an  hour 
before  sundown  till  the  breaking  foam  along 
the  wild  cherry  flushed  fugitively  because  of 
the  crimson  glow  out  of  the  west,  there  was 
a  ceaseless  chittering  of  birds.  The  star- 
lings and  the  sparrows  enjoyed  the  commune 
of  the  homestead;  the  larks  and  fieldfares 
and  green  and  yellow  linnets  congregated  in 
the  meadows,  where,  too,  the  wild  bee  al- 
ready roved.  Among  the  brown  ridgy  fal- 
lows there  was  a  constant  flutter  of  black, 
white-gleaming,  and  silver-gray  wings,  where 
the  stalking  rooks,  the  jerking  pewets,  and  the 
wary,  uncertain  gulls  from  the  neighboring 
sea,  feasted  tirelessly  from  the  teeming  earth. 
Often,  too,  the  wind-hover,  that  harbinger 
of  the  season  of  the  young  broods,  quivered 
his  curved  wings  in  his  arrested  flight,  while 
his  lance-like  gaze  penetrated  the  whins, 
beneath  which  a  new-born  rabbit  crawled,  or 
discerned  in  the  tangle  of  a  grassy  tuft  the 
brown,  watchful  eyes  of  a  nesting  quail. 

In  the  remoter  woodlands  the  three  forest- 
ers of  April  could  be  heard:  the  woodpecker 
tapping  on  the  gnarled  boles  of  the  oaks; 


6  Green  Fire 

the  wild-dove  calling  in  low,  crooning  mono- 
tones to  his  silent  mate;  the  cuckoo  tolling 
his  infrequent  peals  from  skyey  belfries  built 
of  sun  and  mist. 

In  the  fields,  where  the  thorns  were  green 
as  rivulets  of  melted  snow  and  the  grass  had 
the  bloom  of  emerald,  and  the  leaves  of 
docken,  clover,  cinquefoil,  sorrel,  and  a  thou- 
sand plants  and  flowers,  were  wave-green,  the 
ewes  lay,  idly  watching  with  their  luminous 
amber  eyes  the  frisking  and  leaping  of  the 
close-curled,  tuft-tailed,  woolly-legged  lambs. 
In  corners  of  the  hedgerows,  and  in  hollows 
in  the  rolling  meadows,  the  primrose,  the  cel- 
andine, the  buttercup,  the  dandelion,  and  the 
daffodil  spilled  little  eddies  of  the  sun-flood 
which  overbrimmed  them  with  light.  All  day 
long  the  rapture  of  the  larks  filled  the  blue 
air  with  vanishing  spirals  of  music,  swift  and 
passionate  in  the  ascent,  repetitive  and  less 
piercing  in  the  narrowing  downward  gyres. 
From  every  whin  the  poignant,  monotonous 
note  of  the  yellow-hammer  reechoed.  Each 
pastoral  hedge  was  alive  with  robins,  chaf- 
finches, and  the  dusky  shadows  of  the  wild- 


Euchan's  7 

mice  darting  here  and  there  among  the  green- 
ing boughs. 

Whenever  this  green  fire  is  come  upon 
the  earth,  the  swift  contagion  spreads  to  the 
human  heart.  What  the  seedlings  feel  in  the 
brown  mould,  what  the  sap  feels  in  the  trees, 
what  the  blood  feels  in  every  creature  from 
the  newt  in  tne  pool  to  the  nesting  bird — so 
feels  the  strange,  remembering  ichor  that 
runs  its  red  tides  through  human  hearts  and 
brains.  Spring  has  its  subtler  magic  for  us, 
because  of  the  dim  mysteries  of  unremember- 
ing  remembrance  and  of  the  vague  radiances 
of  hope.  Something  in  us  sings  an  ascendant 
song,  and  we  expect,  we  know  not  what; 
something  in  us  sings  a  decrescent  song,  and 
we  realize  vaguely  the  stirring  of  immemorial 
memories. 

There  is  none  who  will  admit  that  spring 
is  fairer  elsewhere  than  in  his  own  land. 
But  there  are  regions  where  the  season 
is  so  hauntingly  beautiful  that  it  would 
seem  as  though  Angus  Ogue  knew  them 
for  his  chosen  resting-places  in  his  green 
journey. 


8  Green  Fire 

Angus  Og,  Angus  MacGreine,  Angus  the 
Ever  Youthful,  the  Son  of  the  Sun,  a  fair 
god  he  indeed,  golden-haired  and  wonder- 
ful as  Apollo  Chrusokomes.  Some  say  that 
he  is  Love;  some,  that  he  is  Spring;  some, 
even,  that  in  him,  Thanatos,  the  Hellenic 
Celt  that  was  his  far-off  kin,  is  reincarnate. 
But  why  seek  riddles  in  flowing  water? 
It  may  well  be  that  Angus  Ogue  is  Love, 
and  Spring,  and  Death.  The  elemental  gods 
are  ever  triune;  and  in  the  human  heart, 
in  whose  lost  Eden  an  ancient  tree  of 
knowledge  grows  wherefrom  the  mind  has 
not  yet  gathered  more  than  a  few  windfalls, 
it  is  surely  sooth  that  Death  and  Love  are 
oftentimes  one  and  the  same,  and  that 
they  love  to  come  to  us  in  the  apparel  of 
Spring. 

Sure,  indeed,  Angus  Ogue  is  a  name  above 
all  sweet  to  lovers,  for  is  he  not  the  god — the 
fair  youth  of  the  Tuatha-de-Danann,  the 
Ancient  People,  with  us  still,  though  for  ages 
seen  of  us  no  more — from  the  meeting  of 
whose  lips  are  born  white  birds,  which  fly 
abroad  and  nest  in  lovers'  hearts  till  the 


Eucharis  9 

moment  come  when,  on  the  yearning  lips  of 
love,  their  invisible  wings  shall  become  kisses 
again? 

Then,  too,  there  is  the  old  legend  that 
Angus  goes  to  and  fro  upon  the  world,  a 
weaver  of  rainbows.  He  follows  the  spring, 
or  is  its  herald.  Often  his  rainbows  are 
seen  in  the  heavens;  often  in  the  rapt  gaze 
of  love.  We  have  all  perceived  them  in 
the  eyes  of  children,  and  some  of  us  have 
discerned  them  in  the  hearts  of  sorrowful 
women  and  in  the  dim  brains  of  the  old. 
Ah!  for  sure,  if  Angus  Og  be  the  lovely 
Weaver  of  Hope  he  is  deathless  comrade  of 
the  spring,  and  we  may  well  pray  to  him  to 
let  his  green  fire  move  in  our  veins,  whether 
he  be  but  the  Eternal  Youth  of  the  World, 
or  be  also  Love,  whose  soul  is  youth,  or 
even  though  he  be  likewise  Death  himself, 
Death  to  whom  Love  was  wedded  long, 
long  ago. 

But  nowhere  was  spring  more  lovely,  no- 
where was  the  green  fire  of  life  so  quick  with 
impulsive  ardors,  as,  one  year  of  the  years,  in 


io  Green  Fire 

a  seaward  region  to  the  north  of  the  ancient 
forest  of  Broceliande,  in  what  of  old  was 
Arraorica  and  now  is  Brittany. 

Here  spring  often  comes  late,  but  ever 
lingers  long.  Here,  too,  in  the  dim  green 
avenues  of  the  oak-woods  of  Kerival,  the 
nightingales  reach  their  uttermost  western 
flight.  Never  has  the  shepherd,  tending 
his  scant  flock  on  the  upland  pastures  of 
Finistere,  nor  the  fisherman  lying  a-dream 
amid  the  sandy  thickets  of  Ushant,  heard 
that  quaint  music  —  that  primeval  and 
ever  young  song  of  the  passionate  heart 
which  Augustine  might  well  have  had  in 
mind  when  he  exclaimed  "Sero  te  amavi, 
Pulchritudo,  tarn  antiqua  et  tarn  nova, 
sero  te  amavi."  But,  each  April,  in  the 
woods  of  Kerival,  the  nightingales  congregate 
from  afar,  and  through  May  their  songs 
make  the  forest  like  a  sanctuary  filled  with 
choristers  swinging  incense  of  a  delicate 
music. 

It  is  a  wonderful  region,  that  which  lies 
betwixt  Ploumaliou  on  the  east  and  Kerloek 
on  the  west;  the  oldest,  remotest  part  of  an 


Eucharis  n 

ancient,  remote  land.  Here  the  few  hamlets 
and  fewer  scattered  villages  are,  even  in  ex- 
ternals, the  same  as  they  were  a  hundred  or 
three  hundred  years  ago.  In  essentials,  there 
is  no  difference  since  St.  Henre*  or  St.  Ronan 
preached  the  new  faith,  or  indeed  since  Ahes 
the  Pale  rode  through  the  forest  aisles  in  the 
moonlight  and  heard  the  Nains  chanting,  or 
since  King  Gradlon  raced  his  horse  against 
the  foam  when  his  daughter  let  the  sea  in 
upon  the  fair  city  of  Ys.  The  good  curts 
preach  the  religion  of  Christ  and  of  Mary  to 
the  peasants;  but  in  the  minds  of  most  of 
these  there  lingers  much  of  the  bygone  faith 
that  reared  the  menhirs.  Few  indeed  there 
are  in  whose  ears  is  never  an  echo  of  the  old 
haunted  world,  when  every  wood  and  stream, 
every  barren  moor  and  granite  wilderness, 
every  sea-pasture  and  creek  and  bay  had  its 
particular  presence,  its  spirit  of  good  or  ill, 
its  menace,  its  perilous  enchantment.  The 
eyes  of  the  peasants  by  these  shores,  these 
moors,  these  windy  hill-slopes  of  the  south, 
are  not  fixed  only  on  the  meal-chest  and  the 
fallow-field,  or,  on  fete-days,  upon  the  cruci- 


iz  Green  Fire 

fix  in  the  little  church;  but  often  dwell  upon 
a  past  time,  more  sacred  now  than  ever  in  this 
bitter  relinquishing  age.  On  the  lips  of  many 
may  be  heard  lines  from  that  sad  folk-song, 
"Ann  Amzer  Dremenet  "  (In  the  Long  Ago) : 

Eur  c'havel  kaer  karn  olifant, 
War-n-han  tachou  aour  hag  arc"  hant. 

Daelou  a  ver,  daelou  c'houero  : 
Neb  a  zo  enn  han  zo  maro  ! 

Zo  maro,  zo  maro  pell-zo, 
Hag  hi  luskel,  o  kana  'to, 

Hag  hi  luskel,  luskel  ato, 
Kollet  ar  skiand-vad  gant-ho. 

Ar  skiand-vad  ho  deuz  kollet  ; 
Kollet  ho  deuz  joaiou  ar  bed. 

[But  when  they  had  made  the  cradle 

Of  ivory  and  of  gold, 
Their  hearts  were  heavy  still 
With  the  sorrow  of  old. 

And  ever  as  they  rocked,  the  tears 

Ran  down,  sad  tears  : 
Who  is  it  lieth  dead  therein, 

Dead  all  these  weary  years  ? 


Eucharis  13 

And  still  they  rock  that  cradle  there 

Of  ivory  and  gold  ; 
For  in  their  brains  the  shadow  is 

The  Shadow  of  Old. 

They  weep,  and  know  not  what  they  weep  ; 

They  wait  a  vain  rebirth  : 
Vanity  of  vanities,  alas! 

For  there  is  but  one  birth 

On  the  wide,  green  earth.] 

Old  sayings  they  have,  too-  who  knows  how 
old?  The  charcoal-burner  in  the  woods  above 
Kerloek  will  still  shudder  at  the  thought  of 
death  on  the  bleak,  open  moor,  because  of  the 
carrion-crow  that  awaits  his  sightless  eyes,  the 
fox  that  will  tear  his  heart  out,  and  the  toad 
that  will  swallow  his  soul.  Long,  long  ago 
Gwenc'hlan  the  Bard  sang  thus  of  his  foe  and 
the  foes  of  his  people,  when  every  battle  field 
was  a  pasture  for  the  birds  and  beasts  of  prey, 
and  when  the  Spirit  of  Evil  lurked  near  every 
corpse  in  the  guise  of  a  toad.  And  still  the 
shrimper,  in  the  sands  beyond  Ploumaliou,  will 
cry  out  against  the  predatory  sea  fowl  A  gas 
ar  Gall — a  gas  ar  Gall!  (Chase  the  Franks!) 


14  Green  Fire 

and  not  know  that,  ages  ago,  this  cry  went 
up  from  the  greatest  of  Breton  kings,  when 
Nomenoe  drove  the  Frankish  invaders  beyond 
the  Oust  and  the  Vilaine,  and  lighted  their 
flight  by  the  flames  of  Nantes  and  Rennes. 

Near  the  northern  frontier  of  the  remotest 
part  of  this  ancient  region,  the  Manor  of 
Kerival  was  the  light-house  of  its  forest  vici- 
nage. It  was  and  is  surrounded  by  woods,  for 
the  most  part  of  oak  and  chestnut  and  beech. 
Therein  are  trees  of  an  age  so  great  that  they 
may  have  sheltered  the  flight  of  Jud  Mael, 
when  Ahes  chased  him  on  her  white  stallion 
from  glade  to  glade,  and  one  so  venerably  old 
that  its  roots  may  have  been  soaked  in  the 
blood  of  their  child  Judik,  whom  she  forced 
her  betrayer  to  slay  with  the  sword  before  she 
thrust  a  dagger  into  his  heart.  Northward  of 
the  manor,  however,  the  forest  is  wholly  of 
melancholy  spruce,  of  larch  and  pine.  The 
pines  extend  in  a  desolate  disarray  to  the 
interminable  dunes,  beyond  which  the  Breton 
sea  lifts  its  gray  wave  against  a  gray  hori- 
zon. On  that  shore  there  are  few  rocks, 
though  here  and  there  fang-like  reefs  rise, 


Eucharis  15 

ready  to  tear  and  devour  any  boat  hurled 
upon  them  at  full  tide  in  days  of  storm.  At 
Kerival  Haven,  too,  there  is  a  wilderness  of 
granite  rock;  a  mass  of  pinnacles,  buttresses, 
and  inchoate  confusion,  ending  in  long,  smooth 
ledges  of  black  basalt,  these  forever  washed 
by  the  green  flow  of  the  tides. 

None  of  the  peasants  knew  the  age  of  the 
House  of  Kerival,  or  how  long  the  Kerival 
family  had  been  there.  Old  Yann  He*nan,  the 
blind  brother  of  the  white-haired  cur<f,  Pere 
Alain,  who  was  the  oldest  man  in  all  the 
countryside,  was  wont  to  say  that  Kerival 
woods  had  been  green  before  ever  there  was  a 
house  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  and  that  a 
Kerival  had  been  lord  of  the  land  before  ever 
there  was  a  king  of  France.  All  believed  this, 
except  Pere  Alain,  and  even  he  dissented  only 
when  Yann  spoke  of  the  seigneur's  ancestor 
as  the  Marquis  of  Kerival;  for,  as  he  ex- 
plained, there  were  no  marquises  in  those  far- 
off  days.  But  this  went  for  nothing;  for, 
unfortunately,  Pere  Alain  had  once  in  his 
youth  preached  against  the  popular  belief  in 
Kerrigans  and  Nains,  and  had  said  that  these 


1 6  Green  Fire 

supernatural  beings  did  not  exist,  or  at  any 
rate  were  never  seen  of  man.  How,  then, 
could  much  credence  be  placed  on  the  testi- 
mony of  a  man  who  could  be  so  prejudiced? 
Yann  had  but  to  sing  a  familiar  snatch  from 
the  old  ballad  of  "  Aotru  Nann  Hag  ar  Gorri- 
gan  " — the  fragment  beginning 

Ken  a  gavas  eur  waz  vihan 
E-kichen  ti  eur  Gorrigan, 

and  ending 

Met  gwell  eo  d'in  mervel  breman 
'Get  dimizi  d'  eur  Gorrigan  ! — 

[The  Lord  Nann  came  to  the  Kelpie's  Pool 
And  stooped  to  drink  the  water  cool  ; 

But  he  saw  the  kelpie  sitting  by, 
Combing  her  long  locks  listlessly. 

"  O  knight,"  she  sang,  "  thou  dost  not  fear 
To  draw  these  perilous  waters  near  ! 

Wed  thou  me  now,  or  on  a  stone 

For  seven  years  perish  all  alone, 

Or  three  days  hence  moan  your  death-moan  ! " 

"  I  will  not  wed  you,  nor  alone 
Perish  with  torment  on  a  stone, 
Nor  three  days  hence  draw  my  death-moan — 


Eucharis  17 

For  I  shall  die,  O  Kelpie  fair, 
When  God  lets  down  the  golden  stair, 
And  so  my  soul  thou  shalt  not  share — 

But,  if  my  fate  is  to  lie  dead, 

Here,  with  thy  cold  breast  for  my  bed, 

Death  can  be  mine,  I  will  not  wed  !  "] 

When  Yann  sang  this,  or  told  for  the  hun- 
dredth time  the  familiar  story  of  how  Paskou- 
Hir  the  tailor  was  treated  by  the  Nains  when 
he  sought  to  rifle  the  hidden  treasure  in  the 
grotto,  every  one  knew  that  he  spoke  what 
was  authentic,  what  was  true.  As  for  Pere 
Alain — well,  priests  are  told  to  say  many  things 
by  the  good,  wise  Holy  Father,  who  rules  the 
world  so  well  but  has  never  been  in  Brittany, 
and  so  cannot  know  all  that  happens  there, 
and  has  happened  from  time  immemorial. 
Then,  again,  was  there  not  the  evidence  of 
the  alien,  the  strange,  quiet  man  called  Yann 
the  Dumb,  because  of  his  silence  at  most  times 
— him  that  was  the  servitor-in-chief  to  the 
Lady  Lois,  the  beautiful  paralyzed  wife  of  the 
Marquis  of  Kerival,  and  that  came  from  the  far 
north,  where  the  kindred  of  the  Armorican 
race  dwell  among  the  misty  isles  and  rainy 


1 8  Green  Fire 

hills  of  Scotland?  Indeed  Yann  had  been 
heard  to  say  that  he  would  sooner  disbelieve 
in  the  Pope  himself  than  in  the  kelpie,  for  in 
his  own  land  he  had  himself  heard  her  devil- 
ish music  luring  him  across  a  lonely  moor,  and 
he  had  known  a  man  who  had  gone  fey  because 
he  had  seen  the  face  of  a  kelpie  in  a  hill-tarn. 

In  the  time  of  the  greening,  even  the  Kor- 
rigans  are  unseen  of  walkers  in  the  dusk. 
They  are  busy  then,  some  say,  winding  the 
white  into  the  green  bulbs  of  the  water-lilies, 
or  tinting  the  wings  within  the  chrysalis  of  the 
water-fly,  or  weaving  the  bright  skins  for  the 
newts;  but  however  this  may  be,  the  season 
of  the  green  flood  over  the  brown  earth  is  not 
that  wherein  man  may  fear  them. 

No  fear  of  Kerrigan  or  Nain,  or  any  other 
woodland  creature  or  haunter  of  pool  or 
stream,  disturbed  two  who  walked  in  the 
green-gloom  of  a  deep  avenue  in  the  midst 
of  the  forest  beyond  the  Manor  of  Kerival. 
They  were  young,  and  there  was  green  fire  in 
their  hearts;  for  they  moved  slow,  hand  claspt 
in  hand,  and  with  their  eyes  dwelling  often  on 
the  face  of  each  other.  And  whenever  Ynys 


Eucharis  19 

de  Kerival  looked  at  her  cousin  Alan  she 
thought  him  the  fairest  and  comeliest  of  the 
sons  of  men;  and  whenever  Alan  turned  the 
longing  of  his  eyes  upon  Ynys  he  wondered  if 
anywhere  upon  the  green  earth  moved  aught 
so  sweet  and  winsome,  if  anywhere  in  the 
green  world  was  another  woman  so  beautiful 
in  body,  mind,  and  spirit,  as  Ynys — Ynys  the 
Dark,  as  the  peasants  called  her,  though  Ynys 
of  the  dusky  hair  and  the  hazel-green  eyes 
would  have  been  truer  of  her  whom  Alan  de 
Kerival  loved.  Of  a  truth,  she  was  fair  to 
see.  Tall  she  was,  and  lithe;  in  her  slim, 
svelt  body  there  was  something  of  the  swift 
movement  of  the  hill-deer,  something  of  the 
agile  abandon  of  the  leopard.  She  was  of  that 
small  clan,  the  true  daughters  of  the  sun. 
Her  tanned  face  and  hands  showed  that  she 
loved  the  open  air,  though  indeed  her  every 
movement  proved  this.  The  sun-life  was 
even  in  that  shadowy  hair  of  hers,  which  had 
a  sheen  of  living  light  wrought  into  its 
fragrant  dusk;  it  was  in  her  large,  deep,  trans- 
lucent eyes,  of  a  soft,  dewy  twilight-gray 
often  filled  with  green  light,  a,s  of  the  forest- 


20  Green  Fire 

aisles  or  as  the  heart  of  a  sea-wave  as  it 
billows  over  sunlit  sand;  it  was  in  the  heart 
and  in  the  brain  of  this  daughter  of  an  ancient 
race — and  the  nostalgia  of  the  green  world 
was  hers.  For  in  her  veins  ran  the  blood 
not  only  of  her  Armorican  ancestors  but  of 
another  Celtic  strain,  that  of  the  Gael  of  the 
Isles.  Through  her  mother,  Lois  Macdonald, 
of  the  remote  south  isles  of  the  Outer 
Hebrides,  the  daughter  of  a  line  as  ancient 
as  that  of  Tristran  de  Kerival,  she  inherited 
even  more  than  her  share  of  the  gloom,  the 
mystery,  the  sea-passion,  the  vivid  oneness 
with  nature  which  have  disclosed  to  so  many 
of  her  fellow-Celts  secret  sources  of  peace. 

Everywhere  in  that  region  the  peasant 
poets  sang  of  Ynys  the  Dark  or  of  her  sister 
Annaik.  They  were  the  two  beautiful  women 
of  the  world,  there.  But,  walking  in  the 
fragrant  green-gloom  of  the  beeches,  Alan 
smiled  when  he  thought  of  Annaik,  for  all  her 
milk-white  skin  and  her  wonderful  tawny  hair, 
for  all  her  strange,  shadowy  amber-brown 
eyes — eyes  often  like  dark  hill-crystals  aflame 
with  stormy  light.  She  was  beautiful,  and 


Eucharis  21 

tall  too,  and  with  an  even  wilder  grace  than 
Ynys ;  yet — there  was  but  one  woman  in  the 
world,  but  one  Dream,  and  her  name  was 
Ynys. 

It  was  then  that  he  remembered  the  line  of 
the  unfortunate  boy-poet  of  the  Paris  that  has 
not  forgotten  him;  and  looking  at  Ynys,  who 
seemed  to  him  the  very  spirit  of  the  green  life 
all  around  him,  muttered:  "Then  in  the 
violet  forest,  all  a-bourgeon,  Eucharis  said  to 
me:  'It  is  Spring.'" 


CHAPTER  II 
THE    HOUSE   OF    KERIVAL 

IT  was  with  a  sudden  beating  of  the  heart 
that,  midway  in  Easter,  Alan  de  Kerival  re- 
ceived in  Paris  two  letters:  one  from  the  Mar- 
quis de  Kerival,  and  the  other  from  his  cousin 
Ynys,  whom  he  loved. 

At  all  times  he  was  ill  at  ease  in  the  great 
city;  or  at  all  times  save  when  he  was  alone 
in  his  little  study  in  the  Tour  de  1'Ile,  or  in 
the  great  circular  room  where  the  master 
astronomer,  Daniel  Dare,  wrought  unceas- 
ingly. On  rare  occasions,  golden  afternoons 
these,  he  escaped  to  the  green  places  near 
Paris — to  Rambouillet  or  St.  Germain,  or  even 
to  Fontainebleau.  There,  under  the  leafless 
trees  of  winter  or  at  the  first  purpling  of 
spring,  he  was  wont  to  walk  for  hours,  dream- 
ing his  dream.  For  Alan  was  a  poet,  and  to 
dream  was  his  birthright. 


The  House  of  Kerival  23 

And  for  dream,  what  had  he?  There  was 
Ynys  above  all,  Ynys  whom  he  loved  with  ever 
deepening  joy  and  wonder.  More  and  more 
she  had  become  to  him  his  real  life;  he  lived 
in  her,  for  her,  because  of  her.  More  and 
more,  too,  he  realized  that  she  was  his 
strength,  his  inspiration.  But  besides  this 
abiding  delight,  which  made  his  heart  leap 
whenever  he  saw  a  Breton  name  above  a  shop 
or  on  a  volume  on  the  bookstalls,  he  was  ever 
occupied  by  that  wonderful  past  of  his  race 
which  was  to  him  a  living  reality.  It  was 
perhaps  because  he  so  keenly  perceived  the 
romance  of  the  present — the  romance  of  the 
general  hour,  of  the  individual  moment — that 
he  turned  so  insatiably  to  the  past  with  its 
deathless  charm,  its  haunting  appeal.  The 
great  astronomer  whom  he  loved  and  served 
knew  the  young  man  well,  and  was  wont  to  say 
that  his  favorite  assistant  was  born  a  thousand 
years  too  late. 

One  day  a  Breton  neighbor  of  the  Marquis 
de  Kerival  questioned  Daniel  Dare  as  to 
who  the  young  man's  friends  were.  "  No- 
menoe,  Gradlon-Maur,  Gwenc'hlan,  Taliesin, 


24  Green  Fire 

Merlin,  and  Oisin,"  was  the  reply.  And  it 
was  true.  Alan's  mind  was  as  irresistibly 
drawn  to  the  Celtic  world  of  the  past  as  the 
swallow  to  the  sun-way.  In  a  word,  he  was 
not  only  a  poet,  but  a  Celtic  poet;  and  not 
only  a  Celtic  poet,  but  a  dreamer  of  the  Celtic 
dream. 

Perhaps  this  was  because  of  the  double 
strain  in  his  veins.  Doubtless,  too,  it  was 
continuously  enhanced  by  his  intimate  knowl- 
edge of  two  of  the  Celtic  languages,  that  of 
the  Breton  and  that  of  the  Gael.  It  is  lan- 
guage that  is  the  surest  stimulus  to  the  re- 
membering nerves.  We  have  a  memory  within 
memory,  as  layers  of  skin  underlie  the  epider- 
mis. With  most  of  us  this  anteHor  remem- 
brance remains  dormant  throughout  life;  but 
to  some  are  given  swift  ancestral  recollec- 
tions. Alan  de  Kerival  was  of  these  few. 

His  aunt,  the  Marquise,  true  Gael  of  the 
Hebrid  Isles  as  she  was,  loved  the  language  of 
her  people,  and  spoke  it  as  she  spoke  English, 
even  better  than  French.  Of  Breton,  save  a 
few  words  and  phrases,  she  knew  almost 
nothing — though  Armorican  was  exclusively 


The  House  of  Kerival  25 

used  throughout  the  whole  Kerival  region, 
was  the  common  tongue  in  the  Manor  itself, 
and  was  habitually  affected  even  by  the  Mar- 
quis de  Kerival — on  the  few  occasions  when 
Tristran  the  Silent,  as  the  old  nobleman  was 
named,  cared  to  speak.  But  with  two  mem- 
bers of  the  household  she  invariably  spoke  in 
Gaelic;  with  her  nephew  Alan,  the  child  of 
her  sister  Silis  Macdonald,  and  her  old  servi- 
tor, Ian  Macdonald,  known  among  his  fellows 
as  Yann  the  Dumb,  mainly  because  he  seldom 
spoke  to  them,  having  no  language  but  his 
own.  Latterly,  her  daughter  Ynys  had  be- 
come as  familiar  with  the  one  Celtic  tongue 
as  the  other. 

With  this  double  key,  Alan  unlocked  many 
doors.  All  the  wonderful  romance  of  old 
Armorica  and  of  ancient  Wales  was  familiar 
to  him,  and  he  was  deeply  versed  in  the  still 
more  wonderful  and  magical  lore  of  the  Gaelic 
race.  In  his  brain  ran  ever  that  Ossianic  tide 
which  has  borne  so  many  marvellous  argosies 
through  the  troubled  waters  of  the  modern 
mind.  Old  ballads  of  his  native  isles,  with 
their  haunting  Gaelic  rhythms  and  idioms  and 


26  Green  Fire 

their  frequent  reminiscences  of  the  Norse  vi- 
king and  the  Danish  summer-sailor,  were  often 
in  his  ears.  He  had  lived  with  his  hero  Cuch- 
ullin  from  the  days  when  the  boy  showed  his 
royal  blood  at  Emain-Macha  till  that  sad  hour 
when  his  madness  came  upon  him  and  he  died. 
He  had  fared  forth  with  many  a  Lifting  of  the 
Sunbeam,  and  had  followed  Oisin  step  by  step 
on  that  last  melancholy  journey  when  Malvina 
led  the  blind  old  man  along  the  lonely  shores 
of  Arran.  He  had  watched  the  crann-tara 
flare  from  glen  to  glen,  and  at  the  bidding  of 
that  fiery  cross  he  had  seen  the  whirling  of 
swords,  the  dusky  flight  of  arrow-rain,  and, 
from  the  isles,  the  leaping  forth  of  the  war 
birlinns  to  meet  the  viking  galleys.  How 
often,  too,  he  had  followed  Nial  of  the  Nine 
Hostages,  and  had  seen  the  Irish  Charle- 
magne ride  victor  through  Saxon  London,  or 
across  the  Norman  plains,  or  with  onward 
sword  direct  his  army  against  the  white  walls 
of  the  Alps!  How  often  he  had  been  with  the 
great  king  Nomonoe,when  he  with  his  Armori- 
cans  chased  the  Frankish  wolves  away  from 
Breton  soil,  or  had  raced  with  Gradlon-Maur 


The  House  of  Kerival  27 

from  the  drowning  seas  which  overwhelmed  Ys, 
where  the  king's  daughter  had  at  the  same 
moment  put  her  hands  on  the  Gates  of  Love 
and  Death!  How  often  he  had  heard  Merlin 
and  Taliesin  speak  of  the  secret  things  of  the 
ancient  wisdom,  or  Gwenc'hlan  chant  upon 
his  wild  harp,  or  the  fugitive  song  of  Vivien  in 
the  green  woods  of  Broceliande,  where  the  en- 
chanted seer  sleeps  his  long  sleep  and  dreams 
his  dream  of  eternal  youth. 

It  was  all  this  marvellous  life  of  old  which 
wrought  upon  Alan  de  Kerival's  life  as  by  a 
spell.  Often  he  recalled  the  words  of  a 
Gaelic  sian  he  had  heard  Yann  croon  in  his 
soft,  monotonous  voice — words  which  made  a 
light  shoreward  eddy  of  the  present  and  were 
solemn  with  the  deep-sea  sound  of  the  past, 
that  is  with  us  even  as  we  speak. 

He  was  himself,  too,  a  poet,  and  loved  to 
tell  anew,  in  Breton,  to  the  peasants  of  Keri- 
val, some  of  the  wild  north  tales,  or  to  relate 
in  Gaelic  to  his  aunt  and  to  Ynys  the  beauti- 
ful folk-ballads  of  Brittany,  which  Annaik 
knew  by  heart  and  chanted  with  the  strange, 
wailing  music  of  the  forest-wind. 


28  Green  Fire. 

In  that  old  Manor,  moreover,  another 
shadow  put  a  gloom  into  his  mind — this  was 
another  shadow  than  that  which  made  the 
house  so  silent  and  chill,  the  inviolate  isola- 
tion of  the  paralyzed  but  still  beautiful 
Marquise  Lois  from  her  invalid  husband,  limb- 
useless  from  his  thighs  because  of  a  hurt  done 
in  the  war  into  which  he  had  gone  brown- 
haired  and  strong,  and  whence  he  had  come 
broken  in  hope,  shattered  in  health,  and  gray 
with  premature  age.  And  this  other  shadow 
was  the  mystery  of  his  birth. 

It  was  in  vain  he  had  tried  to  learn  the 
name  of  his  father.  Only  three  people  knew 
it:  the  Marquis  Tristran,  the  Marquise  Lois, 
and  Yann  the  Dumb.  From  none  of  these 
could  he  elicit  more  than  what  he  had  long 
known.  All  was  to  be  made  clear  on  his 
twenty-fifth  birthday;  till  then  he  had  to  be 
content  with  the  knowledge  that  he  was  Alan 
de  Kerival  by  courtesy  only;  that  he  was  the 
son  of  Silis  Macdonald,  of  an  ancient  family 
whose  ancestral  home  was  in  one  of  the  isles 
of  the  Southern  Hebrides,  of  Silis,  the  dead 
sister  of  Lois  de  Kerival;  and  that  he  was  the 


The  House  of  Kerival  29 

adopted  child  of  the  Marquis  and  Marquise 
who  bore  that  old  Armoric  name. 

That  there  was  tragedy  inwrought  with  his 
story  he  knew  well.  From  fugitive  words, 
too,  he  had  gained  the  idea  that  his  father,  in 
common  with  the  Marquis  Tristran,  had  been 
a  soldier  in  the  French  army;  though  as  to 
whether  this  unknown  parent  was  Scottish  or 
Breton  or  French,  or  as  to  whether  he  was 
alive  or  dead,  there  was  no  homing  clew. 

To  all  his  enquiries  of  the  Marquise  he 
received  no  answer,  or  was  told  simply  that  he 
must  wait.  The  Marquis  he  rarely  saw,  and 
never  spoke  with.  If  ever  he  encountered 
the  stern,  white-haired  man  as  he  was  wheeled 
through  the  garden  ways  or  down  one  of  the 
green  alleys,  or  along  the  corridors  of  the 
vast,  rambling  chateau,  they  passed  in  silence. 
Sometimes  the  invalid  would  look  at  him  with 
the  fierce,  unwavering  eyes  of  a  hawk;  but 
for  the  most  part  the  icy,  steel-blue  eyes 
ignored  the  young  man  altogether. 

Yann,  too,  could  not,  or  would  not  confide 
any  thing  more  than  Alan  had  already  learned 
from  the  Marquise.  The  gaunt  old  Hebrid- 


30  Green  Fire 

can — whose  sole  recreation,  when  not  sitting 
pipe  in  mouth  before  the  flaming  logs,  was  to 
wander  along  the  melancholy  dunes  by  the 
melancholy  gray  sea,  and  mutter  continuously 
to  himself  in  his  soft  island-Gaelic — would 
talk  slowly  by  the  hour  on  old  legends,  and 
ballad-lore,  and  on  seanachas  of  every  kind. 
When,  however,  Alan  asked  him  about  the 
sisters  Lois  and  Silis  Macdonald,  or  how  Lois 
came  to  marry  a  Breton,  and  as  to  the  man 
Silis  loved,  and  what  the  name  was  of  the  isle 
whereon  they  lived, — or  even  as  to  whether 
Ian  himself  had  kith  or  kin  living, — Yann 
would  justify  his  name.  He  took  no  trouble 
in  evasion:  he  simply  became  dumb. 

Sometimes  Alan  asked  the  old  man  if  he 
cared  to  see  the  Isles  again.  At  that,  a  look 
ever  came  into  Ian  Macdonald's  eyes  which 
made  his  young  clansman  love  him. 

"It  will  never,  never  be  forgetting  my  own 
place  I  will  be,"  he  replied  once,  "no,  never. 
I  would  rather  be  hearing  the  sea  on  the 
shores  there  than  all  the  hymns  of  heaven,  and 
I  would  rather  be  having  the  canna  and  the 
heather  over  my  head  than  be  under  the  altar 


The  House  of  Kerival  31 

of  the  great  church  at  Kerloek.  No,  no,  it 
is  the  pain  I  have  for  my  own  place,  and  the 
isle  where  my  blood  has  been  for  hundreds  of 
years,  and  where  for  sure  my  heart  is,  Alan 
Mac " 

With  eager  ears  Alan  had  hoped  for  the 
name  whereat  the  old  man  had  stopped  short. 
It  would  have  told  him  much.  "Alan,  son 

of ! "  Even  that  baptismal  name  would 

probably  have  told  him  if  his  father  were  a 
Gael  or  a  Breton,  an  Englishman  or  a  French- 
man. But  Yann  said  no  more,  then  or  later. 

Alan  had  hoped,  too,  that  when  he  came 
back,  after  his  first  long  absence  from  Kerival, 
his  aunt  would  be  more  explicit  with  him.  A 
vain  hope,  for  when  once  more  he  was  at  the 
chateau  he  found  the  Marquise  even  less 
communicative  than  was  her  wont.  Her 
husband  was  more  than  ever  taciturn,  and  a 
gloom  seemed  to  have  descended  upon  the 
house.  For  the  first  time  he  noticed  a  change 
in  the  attitude  of  Annaik.  Her  great,  scorn- 
ful, wild-bird  eyes  looked  at  him  often 
strangely.  She  sought  him,  and  then  was 
silent.  If  he  did  not  speak,  she  became 


32  Green  Fire 

morose;  if  he  spoke,  she  relapsed  into  her 
old  scornful  quiescence.  Sometimes,  when 
they  were  alone,  she  unbent,  and  was  his 
beautiful  cousin  and  comrade  again;  but  in 
the  presence  of  Ynys  she  bewildered  him 
by  her  sudden  ennui  or  bitterness  or  even 
shadowy  hostility.  As  for  Ynys,  she  was  un- 
happy, save  in  Alan's  love — a  love  that 
neither  her  father  nor  mother  knew,  and  of 
which  she  never  spoke  to  Annaik. 

If  Alan  were  a  dreamer,  Ynys  was  even 
more  so.  Then,  too,  she  had  what  Annaik 
had  not,  though  she  lacked  what  her  sister 
had.  For  she  was  mystical  as  that  young 
saint  of  the  Bretons  who  saw  Christ  walking 
by  night  upon  the  hills,  and  believed  that  he 
met  there  a  new  Endymion,  his  Bride  of  the 
Church  come  to  him  in  the  moonshine.  Ynys 
believed  in  St.  Guennik,  as  she  believed  in 
Jeanne  d'Arc,  and  no  legend  fascinated  her 
more  than  that  strange  one  she  had  heard 
from  Yann,  of  how  Arthur  the  Celtic  hero 
would  come  again  out  of  Flath-innis,  and 
redeem  his  lost,  receding  peoples.  But,  unlike 
Annaik,  she  had  little  of  the  barbaric  passion, 


The  House  of  Kerival  33 

little  of  that  insatiate  nostalgia  for  the  life  of 
the  open  moor  and  the  windy  sea,  though 
these  she  loved  not  less  whole-heartedly  than 
did  her  sister.  The  two  both  loved  Nature  as 
few  women  love  her;  but  to  Annaik  the  forest 
and  the  moorland  were  home,  while  to  Ynys 
they  were  rather  sanctuaries  or  realms  of 
natural  romance.  This  change  to  an  un- 
welcome taciturnity  had  been  noted  by  Alan 
on  his  home  visit  at  Christmas.  Still,  he 
had  thought  little  of  it  after  his  return  to 
Paris,  for  the  Noel-tide  had  been  sweetened 
by  the  word  given  to  him  by  Ynys. 

Then  Easter  had  come,  and  with  it  the  two 
letters  of  such  import.  That  from  the  Mar- 
quise was  short  and  in  the  tongue  he  and  she 
loved  best:  but  even  thus  it  was  written  guard- 
edly. The  purport  was  that,  now  his  twenty- 
fifth  Di'rthday  was  at  hand,  he  would  soon 
learn  what  he  had  so  long  wished  to  know. 

That  from  Ynys  puzzled  him.     Why  should 

dispeace    have     arisen     between    Ynys    and 

Annaik?     Why    should     an    already    gloomy 

house   have   been    made   still   more  sombre? 

3 


34  Green  Fire 

One  day,  Ynys  wrote,  she  had  come  upon 
Annaik  riding  Sultan,  the  black  stallion,  and 
thrashing  the  horse  till  the  foam  flew  from  the 
champed  bit.  When  she  had  cried  to  Annaik 
to  be  merciful,  and  asked  her  why  she 
punished  Sultan  so,  her  sister  had  cried 
mockingly,  "It  is  my  love!  Addw,  Amore! 
Addio!  Addio!  Addio!  " — and  at  each  addio  had 
brought  her  whip  so  fiercely  upon  the  stal- 
lion's quivering  flanks  that  he  had  reared,  and 
all  but  thrown  her,  till  she  swung  him  round 
as  on  a  pivot  and  went  at  a  wild  gallop  down 
a  long  beech-alley  that  led  into  the  heart  of 
the  forest. 

Well,  these  things  would  be  better  under- 
stood soon.  In  another  week  he  would  be 
out  of  Paris,  possibly  never  to  return.  And 
then  .  .  .  Brittany — Kerival — Ynys! 

Nevertheless  his  heart  was  not  wholly  away 
from  his  work.  The  great  astronomer  had 
known  and  loved  Hersart  de  Kerival,  the 
younger  brother  of  Tristran,  and  it  was  for 
his  sake  that  he  had  taken  the  young  man 
into  his  observatory.  Soon  he  had  dis- 
covered that  the  youth  loved  the  beautiful 


The  House  of  Kerival  35 

science,  and  was  apt,  eager,  and  yet  patient 
to  learn.  In  the  five  years  which  Alan 
spent — with  brief  Brittany  intervals — in  the 
observatory  of  the  Tour  de  1'Ile,  he  had  come 
to  delight  in  the  profession  which  he  had 
chosen,  and  of  which  the  Marquise  had 
approved. 

He  was  none  the  less  close  and  eager  a  stu- 
dent because  that  he  brought  to  this  enthrall- 
ing science  that  spirit  of  the  poetry  of  the 
past,  which  was  the  habitual  atmosphere 
wherein  his  mind  dwelt.  Even  the  most 
eloquent  dissertations  of  Daniel  Dare  failed 
to  move  him  so  much  as  some  ancient  strain 
wherein  the  stars  of  heaven  were  hailed  as 
kindred  of  men;  and  never  had  any  exposition 
of  the  lunar  mystery  so  exquisitely  troubled 
him  as  that  wonderful  cry  of  Ossian  which 
opens  the  poem  of  "Darthula": 

"Daughter  of  heaven,  fair  art  thou!  the 
silence  of  thy  face  is  pleasant.  Thou  comest 
forth  in  loveliness;  the  stars  attend  thy  blue 
steps  in  the  east.  The  clouds  rejoice  in  thy 
presence,  O  moon,  and  brighten  their  dark- 
brown  sides.  Who  is  like  thee  in  heaven, 


36  Green  Fire 

daughter  of  the  night?  The  stars  are  ashamed 
in  thy  presence,  and  turn  aside  their  green 
sparkling  eyes.  Whither  dost  thou  retire 
from  thy  course,  when  the  darkness  of  thy 
countenance  grows?  Hast  thou  thy  hall  like 
Ossian?  Dwellest  thou  in  the  shadow  of  grief? 
Have  thy  sisters  fallen  from  heaven?  Are 
they  who  rejoiced  with  thee,  at  night,  no 
more? — Yes! — They  have  fallen,  fair  light! 
and  thou  dost  often  retire  to  mourn.  But 
thou  thyself  shalt  fail,  one  night;  and  leave 
thy  blue  path  in  heaven.  The  stars  will  then 
lift  their  green  heads;  they,  who  were  ashamed 
in  thy  presence,  will  rejoice." 


CHAPTER  III 
STORM 

YES,  he  was  glad  to  leave  Paris,  although 
that  home  of  lost  causes — thus  designate  in 
a  far  truer  sense  than  is  the  fair  city  by  the 
Isis — had  a  spell  for  him.  But  not  Paris, 
not  even  what,  night  after  night,  he  beheld 
from  the  Tour  de  Tile,  held  him  under  a  spell 
comparable  with  that  which  drew  him  back 
to  the  ancient  land  where  his  heart  was. 

In  truth,  it  was  with  relief  at  last  that  he 
saw  the  city  recede  from  his  gaze,  and  merge 
into  the  green  alleys  north-westward.  With 
a  sigh  of  content,  he  admitted  that  it  was 
indeed  well  to  escape  from  that  fevered  life — 
a  life  that,  to  him,  even  in  his  lightest  mood, 
seemed  far  more  phantasmal  than  that  which 
formed  the  background  to  all  his  thoughts 
and  visions.  Long  before  the  cherry 
orchards  above  Rouen  came  into  view  he 


38  Green  Fire 

realized  how  glad  he  was  even  to  be  away  from 
the  bare,  gaunt  room  where  so  many  of  his 
happiest  hours  had  been  spent;  that  windy 
crow's-nest  of  a  room  at  the  top  of  the  Tour 
de  1'Ile,  whence  nightly  he  had  watched  the 
procession  of  the  stars,  and  nightly  had 
opened  the  dreamland  of  his  imagination  to 
an  even  more  alluring  procession  out  of  the 
past. 

His  one  regret  was  in  having  to  part  from 
Daniel  Dare,  that  strange  and  impressive 
personality  who  had  so  fascinated  him,  and  the 
spell  of  whose  sombre  intellect,  with  its  daunt- 
less range  and  scope,  had  startled  the  thought 
of  Europe,  and  even  given  dreams  to  many  to 
whom  all  dreams  had  become  the  very  Fata 
Morgana  of  human  life. 

Absorbed  as  he  was,  Daniel  Dare  realized 
that  Alan  was  an  astronomer  primarily  because 
he  was  a  poet  rather  than  an  astronomer  by 
inevitable  bias.  He  saw  clearly  into  the 
young  man's  mind,  and  certainly  did  not 
resent  that  his  favorite  pupil  loved  to  dwell 
with  Merlin  rather  than  with  Kepler,  and 
that  even  Newton  or  his  own  master  Arago 


Storm  39 

had  no  such  influence  over  him  as  the  far- 
off,  nigh  inaudible  music  of  the  harp  of 
Aneurin. 

And,  in  truth,  below  all  Alan's  passion  for 
science — of  that  science  which  is  at  once  the 
oldest,  the  noblest,  and  the  most  momentous; 
the  science  of  the  innumerous  concourse  of 
dead,  dying,  and  flaming  adolescent  worlds, 
dust  about  the  threshold  of  an  unfathomable 
and  immeasurable  universe,  wherein  this 
Earth  of  ours  is  no  more  than  a  mere  whirl- 
ing grain  of  sand — below  all  this  living 
devotion  lay  a  deeper  passion  still. 

Truly,  his  soul  must  have  lived  a  thousand 
years  ago.  In  him,  at  least,  the  old  Celtic 
brain  was  reborn  with  a  vivid  intensity  which 
none  guessed,  and  none  except  Ynys  knew — 
if  even  she,  for  Alan  himself  only  vaguely  sur- 
mised the  extent  and  depth  of  this  obsession. 
In  heart  and  brain  that  old  world  lived  anew. 
Himself  a  poet,  all  that  was  fair  and  tragically 
beautiful  was  forever  undergoing  in  his  mind 
a  marvellous  transformation — a  magical  resur- 
rection rather,  wherein  what  was  remote  and 
bygone,  and  crowned  with  oblivious  dust, 


40  Green  Fire 

became  alive  again  with  intense  and  beautiful 

life. 

It  did  not  harmonize  ill  with  Alan's  mood 
that,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  day  he  left 
Rouen,  great,  bulbous  storm-clouds  soared  out 
of  the  west  and  cast  a  gloom  upon  the 
landscape. 

That  is  a  strange  sophistry  which  registers 
passion  according  to  its  nearness  to  the  blithe 
weal  symbolized  in  fair  weather.  Deep  pas- 
sion instinctively  moves  toward  the  shadow 
rather  than  toward  the  golden  noons  of 
light.  Passion  hears  what  love  at  the  most 
dreams  of;  passion  sees  what  love  mayhap 
dimly  discerns  in  a  glass  darkly.  A  million 
of  our  fellows  are  "in  love"  at  any  or  every 
moment;  and  for  these  the  shadowy  way 
is  intolerable.  But  for  the  few,  in  whom 
love  is,  the  eyes  are  circumspect  against 
the  dark  hour  which  comes  when  heart  and 
brain  and  blood  are  aflame  with  the  para- 
mount ecstasy  of  life. 

Deep  passion  is  always  in  love  with  death. 
The  temperate  solicitudes  of  affection  know 


Storm  41 

not  this  perverse  emotion,  which  is  simply 
the  darker  shadow  inevitable  to  a  deeper 
joy — as  the  profundity  of  an  Alpine  lake  is 
to  be  measured  by  the  height  of  the  remote 
summits  which  rise  sheer  from  its  marge. 

When  Alan  saw  this  gloom  slowly  absorb 
the  sunlight,  and  heard  below  the  soft  spring 
cadences  of  the  wind  the  moan  of  coming 
tempest,  his  melancholy  lightened.  Soon  he 
would  see  the  storm  crushing  through  the 
woods  of  Kerival;  soon  feel  the  fierce  rain 
come  sweeping  inland  from  Ploumaliou;  soon 
hear,  confusedly  obscure,  the  noise  of  the 
Breton  Sea  along  the  reef-set  sands.  Already 
he  felt  the  lips  of  Ynys  pressed  against  his 
own. 

The  sound  of  the  sea  called  through  the 
dusk,  now  with  the  muffled  under  roar  of 
famished  lions,  now  with  a  loud,  continuous 
baying  like  that  of  eager  hounds. 

Seaward,  the  deepening  shadows  passed 
intricately  from  wave  to  wave.  The  bays  and 
sheltered  waters  were  full  of  a  tumult  as  of 
baffled  flight,  of  fugitives  jostling  each  other 


42  Green  Fire 

in  a  wild  and  fruitless  evasion.  Along  the  in- 
terminable reach  of  the  Dunes  of  Kerival  the 
sea's  lips  writhed  and  curled;  while  out  of  the 
heart  of  the  turbulent  waste  beyond  issued  a 
shrill,  intermittent  crying,  followed  by  stifled 
laughter.  Ever  and  again  tons  of  whirling 
water,  meeting,  disparted  with  a  hoarse  thun- 
der. This  ever-growing  and  tempestuous 
violence  was  reiterated  in  a  myriad  raucous, 
clamant  voices  along  the  sands  and  among  the 
reefs  and  rocks  and  weed-covered  wave-hol- 
lowed crags. 

Above  the  shore  a  ridge  of  tamarisk- 
fringed  dune  suspended,  hanging  there  dark 
and  dishevelled,  like  a  gigantic  eyebrow  on 
the  forehead  of  a  sombre  and  mysterious 
being.  Beyond  this,  again,  lay  a  stretch  of 
barren  moor,  caught  and  claspt  a  mile  away 
by  a  dark  belt  of  pines,  amid  which  the  inces- 
sant volume  of  the  wind  passed  with  a  shrill 
whistling.  Further  in  among  the  trees  were 
oases  of  a  solemn  silence,  filled  only  at  inter- 
vals with  a  single  flute-like  wind-eddy,  falling 
there  as  the  song  of  a  child  lost  and  baffled  in 
a  waste  place. 


Storm  43 

Over  and  above  the  noise  of  the  sea  was  a 
hoarse  cry  thridding  it  as  a  flying  shuttle  in 
a  gigantic  loom.  This  was  the  wind,  which 
continuously  swept  from  wave  to  wave — 
shrewd,  salt,  bitter  with  the  sterile  breath  of 
the  wilderness  whereon  it  roamed,  crying  and 
moaning,  baying,  howling,  insatiate. 

The  sea-fowl,  congregating  from  afar,  had 
swarmed  inland.  Their  wailing  cries  filled  the 
spray-wet  obscurities.  The  blackness  that 
comes  before  the  deepest  dark  lay  in  the  hollow 
of  the  great  wings  of  the  tempest.  Peace  no- 
where prevailed,  for  in  those  abysmal  depths 
where  the  wind  was  not  even  a  whisper,-  there 
was  listless  gloom  only,because  no  strife  is  there, 
and  no  dream  lives  amid  those  silent  apathies. 

Neither  upon  the  waters  nor  on  the  land 
was  there  sign  of  human  life.  In  that  remote 
region,  solitude  was  not  a  dream  but  a  reality. 
An  ancient  land,  this  loneliest  corner  of  sea- 
washed  Brittany;  an  ancient  land,  with  ever 
upon  it  the  light  of  olden  dreams,  the  gloom 
of  indefinable  tragedy,  the  mystery  of  a  des- 
tiny long  ago  begun  and  never  fulfilled. 

Lost  like  a  rock  in  a  forest,  a  weather-worn, 


44  Green  Fire 

ivy-grown  chateau  stood  within  sound,  though 
not  within  sight,  of  this  tempestuous  sea.  All 
about  it  was  the  deep,  sonorous  echo  of  wind 
and  wave,  transmuted  into  a  myriad  cries 
among  the  wailing  pines  and  oaks  and  vast 
beeches  of  the  woods  of  Kerival.  Wind  and 
wave,  too,  made  themselves  audible  amid  the 
gables  and  in  the  huge  chimneys  of  the  old 
manor-house;  even  in  the  draughty  corridors 
an  echo  of  the  sea  could  be  heard. 

The  pathways  of  the  forest  were  dank  with 
sodden  leaves,  the  debris  of  autumn  which 
the  snows  of  winter  had  saved  from  the  whirling 
gales  of  January.  Underneath  the  brushwood 
and  the  lower  boughs  these  lay  in  brown, 
clotted  masses,  emitting  a  fugitive,  indefinite 
odor,  as  though  the  ghost  of  a  dead  year 
passed  in  that  damp  and  lifeless  effluence. 
But  along  the  frontiers  of  the  woods  there 
was  an  eddying  dust  of  leaves  and  small  twigs, 
and  part  at  least  of  the  indeterminate  rumor 
which  filled  the  air  was  caused  by  this  frail 
lapping  as  of  innumerable  minute  wings. 

In  one  of  those  leaf-quiet  alleys,  shrouded 
in  a  black-green  darkness  save  where  in  one 


Storm  45 

spot  the  gloom  was  illumined  into  a  vivid 
brown,  because  of  a  wandering  beam  of  light 
from  a  turret  in  the  chateau,  a  man  stood. 
The  head  was  forwardly  inclined,  the  whole 
figure  intent  as  a  listening  animal.  He  and 
his  shadow  were  as  those  flowers  of  darkness 
whose  nocturnal  bloom  may  be  seen  of  none 
save  in  the  shadowy  land  of  dream. 

When  for  a  moment  the  wind-wavered  beam 
of  light  fell  athwart  his  face — so  dark  and 
wild  that  he  might  well  have  been  taken  for  a 
nameless  creature  of  the  woods — he  moved. 

With  a  sudden  gesture  he  flung  his  arms 
above  his  head.  His  shadow  sprang  to  one 
side  with  fantastic  speed,  leaping  like  a  diver 
into  the  gulf  of  darkness. 

"Annaik,"  he  cried,  "  Annaik,  Annaik!" 

The  moan  of  the  wind  out  of  the  sea,  the 
confused  noise  of  the  wind's  wings  baffling 
through  the  woods;  no  other  answer  than 
these,  no  other  sound. 

"Annaik,  Annaik!" 

There  was  pain  as  of  a  wounded  beast  in 
the  harsh  cry  of  this  haunter  of  the  dark;  but 
the  next  moment  it  was  as  though  the  lost 


46  Green  Fire 

shadow  had  leapt  back,  for  a  darkness  came 
about  the  man,  and  he  lapsed  into  the  obscu- 
rity as  a  wave  sinks  into  a  wave. 

But,  later,  out  of  the  silence  came  a  voice. 

"Ah,  Annaik!  "  it  cried,  "ah,  Annaik,  for- 
sooth! It  is  Annaik  of  Kerival  you  are,  and 
I  the  dust  upon  the  land  of  your  fathers — but, 
by  the  blood  of  Ronan,  it  is  only  a  woman 
you  are;  and,  if  I  had  you  here  it  is  a  fall  of 
my  fist  you  would  be  having — aye,  the  stroke 
and  the  blow,  for  all  that  I  love  you  as  I  do, 
white  woman,  aye,  and  curse  you  and  yours 
for  that  loving!  " 

Then,  once  again,  there  was  silence.  Only 
the  screeching  of  the  wind  among  the  leaves 
and  tortured  branches;  only  the  deep  roar  of 
the  tempest  at  the  heart  of  the  forest;  only 
the  thunder  of  the  sea  throbbing  pulse-like 
through  the  night.  Nor  when,  a  brief  while 
I  later,  a  white  owl,  swifter  but  not  less  silent 
than  a  drift  of  vapor,  swooped  that  way,  was 
there  living  creature  in  that  solitary  place. 

The  red-yellow  beam  still  turned  into 
brown  the  black-green  of  that  windy  alley; 
but  the  man,  and  the  shadow  of  him,  and  the 


Storm  47 

pain  of  the  beast  that  was  in  him,  and  the  cry 
of  the  baffled  soul,  the  cry  that  none  might 
know  or  even  guess — of  all  this  sorrow  of  the 
night,  nothing  remained  save  the  red  light 
lifting  and  falling  through  the  shadowy  hair 
of  what  the  poets  of  old  called  The  Dark 
Woman  .  .  .  Night. 

Only,  who  may  know  if,  in  that  warmth  and 
glow  within  the  House  of  Kerival,  some 
sudden  menace  from  the  outside  world  of  life 
did  not  knock  at  the  heart  of  Annaik,  where 
she,  tall  and  beautiful  in  her  cream-white 
youth  and  with  her  mass  of  tawny  hair,  stood 
by  Ynys,  whose  dusky  loveliness  was  not  less 
than  her  own — both  radiant  in  the  fire-light, 
with  laughter  upon  the  lips  and  light  within 
their  eyes. 

Oh,  flame  that  burns  where  fires  of  home 
are  lit!  and  oh,  flame  that  burns  in  the  heart 
to  whom  life  has  not  said,  Awake!  and  oh, 
flame  that  smoulders  from  death  to  life,  and 
from  life  to  death,  in  the  dumb  lives  of  those 
to  whom  the  primrose  way  is  closed!  Every- 
where the  burning  of  the  burning,  the  flame 
of  the  flame;  pain  and  the  shadow  of  pain,  joy 


48  Green  Fire 

and  the  rapt  breath  of  joy,  flame  of  the  flame 
that,  burning,  destroyeth  not  till  the  flame  is 
no  more! 

It  was  the  night  of  the  home-coming  of 
Alan.  So  long  had  Ynys  and  Annaik  looked 
forward  to  this  hour,  that  now  hardly  could 
they  believe  the  witness  of  their  eyes  when 
with  eager  glances  they  scrutinized  the  new- 
comer— their  Alanik  of  old. 

He  stood  before  the  great  fire  of  logs. 
Upon  his  face  the  sharp,  damp  breath  of  the 
storm  still  lingered,  but  in  his  eyes  was  a 
light  brighter  than  any  dancing  flame  would 
cause,  and  in  his  blood  a  pulse  that  leapt - 
because  of  another  reason  than  that  swift  ride 
through  the  stormy  woods  of  Kerival. 

At  the  red  and  stormy  break  of  that  day 
Ynys  had  awaked  with  a  song  of  joy  in  her 
heart  that  from  hour  to  hour  had  found  ex- 
pression in  bird-like  carollings,  little  words 
and  fugitive  phrases  which  rippled  from  her 
lips,  the  sunshine-spray  from  the  fount  of  life 
whereon  her  heart  swam  as  a  nenuphar  on  an 
upwelling  pool.  Annaik  also  had  waked  at 


Storm  49 

that  dawn  of  storm.  She  had  risen  in  silence, 
and  in  silence  had  remained  all  day;  giving 
no  sign  that  the  flame  within  her  frayed  the 
nerves  of  her  heart. 

Throughout  the  long  hours  of  tempest,  and 
into  that  dusk  wherein  the  voice  of  the  sea 
moved,  moaning,  across  the  land,  laughter  and 
dream  had  alternated  with  Ynys.  Annaik 
looked  at  her  strangely  at  times,  but  said 
nothing.  Once,  standing  in  the  twilight  of 
the  dark-raftered  room,  Ynys  clasped  her 
hands  across  her  bosom  and  murmured, 
"Oh,  heart  be  still!  My  heaven  is  come." 
And  in  that  hour,  and  in  that  place,  she  who 
was  twin  to  her — strange  irony  of  mother- 
hood, that  should  give  birth  in  one  hour  to 
Day  and  Night,  for  even  as  day  and  night 
were  these  twain,  so  unlike  in  all  things — in 
that  hour  and  in  that  place  Annaik  also 
clasped  her  hands  across  her  bosom,  and  the 
words  that  died  across  the  shadow  of  her  lips 
were,  "  Oh,  heart  be  still  !  My  hell  is  near." 

And   now   he  for  whom  both   had   waited 
stood,  flooded  in  the  red  fire  glow  which  leaped 
from  panel  to  panel,  and  from  rafter  to  rafter, 
4 


So  Green  Fire 

while,  without,  the  howling  of  the  wind  rose 
and  fell  in  prolonged,  monotonous  cadences, — 
anathemas,  rather, — whirled  through  a  dark- 
ness full  of  bewilderment  and  terror. 

As  for  Alan,  it  was  indeed  for  joy  to  him  to 
stand  there,  home  once  more,  with  not  only 
the  savagery  of  the  tempest  behind  him,  but 
also  left  behind,  that  unspeakably  far-off, 
bewilderingly  remote  city  of  Paris  whence  he 
had  so  swiftly  come. 

It  is  said  of  an  ancient  poet  of  the  Druid 
days  that  he  had  the  power  to  see  the  lives  of 
the  living,  and  these  as  though  they  were 
phantoms,  separate  from  the  body.  Was 
there  not  a  young  king  of  Albainn  who,  in  a 
perilous  hour,  discovered  this  secret  of  old 
time,  and  knew  how  a  life  may  be  hidden 
away  from  the  body  so  that  none  may  know 
of  it,  save  the  wind  that  whispers  all  things, 
and  the  tides  of  day  and  night  that  bear  all 
things  upon  their  dark  flood? 

King  of  Albainn,  poet  of  the  old  time,  not 
alone  three  youthful  dreamers  would  you 
have  seen,  there,  in  that  storm-beset  room. 
For  there  you  would  have  seen  six  figures 


Storm  51 

standing  side  by  side.  Three  of  these  would 
have  been  Alan  de  Kerival,  and  Ynys  the 
Dark,  and  Annaik  the  Fair;  and  of  the  other 
three,  one  would  be  of  a  dusky-haired  woman 
with  starry,  luminous  eyes;  and  one  a  pale 
woman  with  a  wealth  of  tawny  hair,  with  eyes 
aflame,  meteors  in  a  desert  place;  and  one 
a  man,  young  and  strong  and  fair  to  see  as 
Alan  de  Kerival,  but  round  about  him  a 
gloom,  and  through  that  gloom  his  eyes  as 
stars  seen  among  the  melancholy  hills. 

Happy  laughter  of  the  world  that  is  always 
young — happy,  in  that  we  are  not  all  seers  of 
old  or  kings  of  Albainn!  For  who,  looking 
into  the  mirrors  of  Life  and  seeing  all  that  is 
to  be  seen,  would  look  again,  save  those  few 
to  whom  Life  and  Death  have  come  sisterly 
and  whispered  the  secret  that  some  have  dis- 
cerned, how  these  twain  are  one  and  the  same. 

Nevertheless,  in  that  happy  hour  for  him, 
Alan  saw  nothing  of  what  Ynys  feared. 
Annaik  had  abruptly  yielded  to  a  strange 
gayety,  and  her  swift  laugh  and  gypsy  smile 
made  his  heart  glad. 

Never  had  he  seen,  even  in  Paris,  women 


52  Green  Fire 

more  beautiful.  Deep-set  as  his  heart  was  in 
the  beauty  of  Ynys,  he  found  himself  admir- 
ing that  of  Annaik  with  new  eyes.  Truly,  she 
was  just  such  a  woman  as  he  had  often  imag- 
ined when  Ian  had  recited  to  him  the  ballad 
of  the  Sons  of  Usna  or  that  of  how  Dermid 
and  Graine  fled  from  the  wrath  of  Fionn. 

And  they,  too,  looking  at  their  tall  cousin, 
with  his  wavy  brown  hair,  broad,  low  brows, 
gray-blue  eyes,  and  erect  carriage,  thought 
him  the  comeliest  man  to  be  seen  in  France; 
and  each  in  her  own  way  was  proud  and  glad, 
though  one,  also,  with  killing  pain. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE    DREAM    AND    THE   DREAMERS 

SOON  after  supper  Annaik  withdrew. 
Ynys  and  Alan  were  glad  to  be  alone,  and 
yet  Annaik's  absence  perturbed  them.  In 
going  she  bade  good-night  to  her  cousin,  but 
took  no  notice  of  her  sister. 

At  first  the  lovers  were  silent  though  they  had 
much  to  say,  and  in  particular  Alan  was  anx- 
ious to  know  what  it  was  that  Ynys  had  alluded 
to  in  her  letter  when  she  warned  him  that 
unforeseen  difficulties  were  about  their  way. 

It  was  pleasant  to  sit  in  that  low-roofed, 
dark  old  room,  and  feel  the  world  fallen  away 
from  them.  Hand  in  hand  they  looked  at 
each  other  lovingly,  or  dreamed  into  the 
burning  logs,  seeing  there  all  manner  of 
beautiful  visions.  Outside,  the  wind  still 
moaned  and  howled,  though  with  less  of 
savage  violence,  and  the  rain  had  ceased. 

For  a  time  Ynys  would  have  no  talk  of  Keri- 


54  Green  Fire 

val;  Alan  was  to  tell  all  he  could  concerning 
his  life  in  Paris,  what  he  had  done,  what  he 
had  dreamed  of,  and  what  he  hoped  for  now. 
But  at  last  he  laughingly  refused  to  speak  more 
of  himself,  and  pressed  her  to  reveal  what  had 
been  a  source  of  anxiety. 

"You  know,  dear,"  she  said,  as  she  rose 
and  leaned  against  the  mantel-piece,  her  tall 
figure  and  dusky  hair  catching  a  warm  glow 
from  the  fire — "you  know  how  pitiable  is  this 
feud  between  my  father  and  mother — how  for 
years  they  have  seen  next  to  nothing  of  each 
other;  how  they  live  in  the  same  house  and  yet 
are  strangers?  You  know,  too,  how  more  than 
ever  unfortunate  this  is,  for  themselves,  and 
for  Annaik  and  me,  on  account  of  our  mother 
being  an  invalid,  and  of  our  father  being 
hardly  less  frail.  Well,  I  have  discovered 
that  the  chief,  if  not  indeed  the  only  abiding 
source  of  misunderstanding  is  yout  dear  Alan !  " 

"But  why,  Ynys?" 

"Ah,  why?  That  is,  of  course,  what  I 
cannot  tell  you.  Have  you  no  suspicion, 
no  idea? " 

"None.     All  I  know  is  that  M.  de  Kerival 


The  Dream  and  the  Dreamers          55 

allows  me  to  bear  his  name,  but  that  he  dis- 
likes, if,  indeed,  he  does  not  actually  hate 
me." 

"There  is  some  reason.  I  came  upon  him 
talking  to  my  mother  a  short  time  ago.  She 
had  told  him  of  your  imminent  return. 

"  'I  never  wish  to  see  his  face,'  my  father 
cried,  with  fierce  vehemence;  then,  seeing  me, 
he  refrained." 

"Well,  I  shall  know  all  the  day  after  to- 
morrow. Meanwhile,  Ynys,  we  have  the  night 
to  ourselves.  Dear,  I  want  to  learn  one 
thing.  What  does  Annaik  know?  Does  she 
know  that  we  love  each  other?  Does  she 
know  that  we  have  told  each  other  of  this 
love,  and  that  we  are  secretly  betrothed? " 

"She  must  know  that  I  love  you;  and  some- 
times I  think  she  knows  that  you  love  me. 
But  .  .  .  oh,  Allan!  I  am  so  unhappy  about 
it.  ...  I  fear  that  Annaik  loves  you  also, 
and  that  this  will  come  between  us  all.  It 
has  already  frozen  her  to  me  and  me  to  her." 

Alan  looked  at  Ynys  with  startled  eyes. 
He  knew  Annaik  better  than  any  one  did; 
and  he  dreaded  the  insurgent  bitterness  of 


56  Green  Fire 

that  wild  and  wayward  nature.  Moreover,  in 
a  sense  he  loved  her,  and  it  was  for  sorrow  to 
him  that  she  should  suffer  in  a  way  wherein 
he  could  be  of  no  help. 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and 
Matieu,  a  white-haired  old  servant,  bowing 
ceremoniously,  remarked  that  M.  le  Marquis 
desired  to  see  Mamzelle  Ynys  immediately. 

Ynys  glanced  round,  told  Matieu  that  she 
would  follow,  and  then  turned  to  Alan. 
How  beautiful  she  was!  bethought;  more  and 
more  beautiful  every  time  he  saw  her.  Ah! 
fair  mystery  of  love,  which  puts  a  glory  about 
the  one  loved;  a  glory  that  is  no  phantasmal 
light,  but  the  realized  beauty  evoked  by  see- 
ing eyes  and  calling  heart.  On  her  face  was 
a  wonderful  color,  a  delicate  flush  that  came 
and  went.  Again  and  again  she  made  a  char- 
acteristic gesture,  putting  her  right  hand  to 
her  forehead  and  then  through  the  shadowy, 
wavy  hair  which  Alan  loved  so  well  and  ever 
thought  of  as  the  fragrant  dusk.  How  glad 
he  was  that  she  was  tall  and  lithe,  graceful  as 
a  young  birch;  that  she  was  strong  and  kissed 
brown  and  sweet  of  sun  and  wind;  that  her 


The  Dream  and  the  Dreamers         57 

beauty  was  old   as   the  world,  and   fresh  as 
every  dawn,  and  new  as  each  recurrent  spring! 
No  wonder  he  was  a  poet,  since  Ynys  was  the 
living  poem  who  inspired  all  that  was  best  in   , 
his  life,  all  that  was  fervent  in  his  brain. 

Thought,  kindred  to  this,  kept  him  a  long 
while  by  the  fire  in  deep  revery,  after  Ynys 
had  thrilled  him  by  her  parting  kisses  and 
had  gone  to  her  father.  He  realized,  then, 
how  it  was  she  gave  him  the  sense  of  woman- 
hood as  no  other  woman  had  done.  In  her, 
he  recognized  the  symbol  as  well  as  the  indi- 
vidual. All  women  shared  in  his  homage 
because  of  her.  His  deep  love  for  her,  his 
ever  growing  passion,  could  evoke  from  him  a 
courtesy,  a  chivalry,  toward  all  women  which 
only  the  callous  or  the  coarse  failed  to  note. 
She  was  his  magic.  The  light  of  their  love 
was  upon  every  thing:  everywhere  he  found 
synonyms  and  analogues  of  "Ynys."  Deeply 
as  he  loved  beauty,  he  had  learned  to  love  it 
far  more  keenly  and  understandingly,  because 
of  her.  He  saw  now  through  the  accidental, 
and  everywhere  discerned  the  eternal  beauty, 
the  echoes  of  whose  wandering  are  in  every 


58  Green  Fire 

heart  and  brain,  though  few  discern  the  white 
vision  or  hear  the  haunting  voice. 

And  with  his  love  had  come  knowledge  of 
many  things  hidden  from  him  before.  Se- 
quences were  revealed,  where  he  had  per- 
ceived only  blind  inconsequence.  Nature 
became  for  him  a  scroll,  a  palimpsest  with 
daily  mutations.  With  each  change  he  found 
a  word,  a  clew,  leading  to  the  fuller  elucida- 
tion of  that  primeval  knowledge  which,  frag- 
mentarily,  from  age  to  age  has  been  painfully 
lost,  regained,  and  lost  again,  though  never 
yet  wholly  irrecoverable. 

Through  this  new  knowledge,  too,  he  had 
come  to  understand  the  supreme  wonder  and 
promise,  the  supreme  hope  of  our  human  life 
in  the  mystery  of  motherhood.  All  this  and 
much  more  he  owed  to  Ynys,  and  to  his  love 
for  her.  She  was  all  that  a  woman  can  be  to  a 
man.  In  her  he  found  the  divine  abstractions 
which  are  the  beacons  of  the  human  soul 
in  its  obscure  wayfaring — Romance,  Love, 
Beauty.  It  was  not  enough  that  she  gave 
him  romance,  that  she  gave  him  love,  that  she 
was  the  most  beautiful  of  women  in  his  eyes. 


The  Dream  and  the  Dreamers         59 

When  he  thought  of  the  one,  it  was  to  see  the 
starry  eyes  and  to  hear  the  charmed  voice  of 
Romance  herself,  in  the  voice  and  in  the  eyes 
of  Ynys:  when  he  thought  of  Love  it  was  to 
hear  Ynys's  heart  beating,  to  listen  to  the 
secret  rhythms  in  Ynys's  brain,  to  feel  the 
life-giving  sun-flood  that  was  in  her  pure  but 
intense  and  glowing  passion. 

Thus  it  was  that  she  had  for  him  that  im- 
mutable attraction  which  a  few  women  have 
for  a  few  men;  an  appeal,  a  charm,  that  atmos- 
phere of  romance,  that  air  of  ideal  beauty, 
wherein  lies  the  secret  of  all  passionate  art. 
The  world  without  wonder,  the  world  without 
mystery!  That,  indeed,  is  the  rainbow  with- 
out colors,  the  sunrise  without  living  gold, 
the  noon  void  of  light. 

To  him,  moreover,  there  was  but  one 
woman.  In  Ynys  he  had  found  her.  This 
exquisite  prototype  was  at  once  a  child  of 
nature,  a  beautiful  pagan,  a  daughter  of  the 
sun;  was  at  once  this  and  a  soul  alive  with  the 
spiritual  life,  intent  upon  the  deep  meanings 
lurking  everywhere,  wrought  to  wonder  even 
by  the  common  habitudes  of  life,  to  mystery 


60  Green  Fire 

even  by  the  familiar  and  the  explicable.  In- 
deed, the  mysticism  which  was  part  of  the 
spiritual  inheritance  come  with  her  northern 
strain  was  one  of  the  deep  bonds  which  united 
them. 

What  if  both  at  times  were  wrought  too 
deeply  by  this  beautiful  dream?  What  if  the 
inner  life  triumphed  now  and  then,  and  each 
forgot  the  deepest  instinct  of  life,  that  here 
the  body  is  overlord  and  the  soul  but  a  divine 
consort?  There  are  three  races  of  man. 
There  is  the  myriad  race  which  loses  all, 
through  (not  bestiality,  for  the  brute  world  is 
clean  and  sane)  perverted  animalism;  and 
there  is  the  myriad  race  which  denounces 
humanity,  and  pins  all  its  faith  and  joy  to  a 
life  the  very  conditions  of  whose  existence 
are  incompatible  with  the  law  to  which  we  are 
subject — the  sole  law,  the  law  of  Nature. 
Then  there  is  that  small  untoward  clan,  which 
knows  the  divine  call  of  the  spirit  through  the 
brain,  and  the  secret  whisper  of  the  soul  in 
the  heart,  and  forever  perceives  the  veils  of 
mystery  and  the  rainbows  of  hope  upon  our 
human  horizons;  which  hears  and  sees,  and 


The  Dream  and  the  Dreamers         61 

yet  turns  wisely,  meanwhile,  to  the  life  of  the 
green  earth,  of  which  we  are  part;  to  the 
common  kindred  of  living  things,  with  which 
we  are  at  one — is  content,  in  a  word,  to  live, 
because  of  the  dream  that  makes  living  so 
mysteriously  sweet  and  poignant;  and  to 
dream,  because  of  the  commanding  immediacy 
of  life. 

As  yet,  of  course,  Alan  and  Ynys  had 
known  little  of  the  vicissitudes  of  aroused 
life.  What  they  did  know,  foresee,  was  due 
rather  to  the  second-sight  of  the  imagination 
than  to  the  keen  knowledge  of  experience. 

In  Alan  Ynys  found  all  that  her  heart 
craved.  She  discovered  this  nearly  too  late. 
A  year  before  this  last  home-coming  of  her 
cousin,  she  had  been  formally  betrothed  to 
Andrik  de  Morvan,  the  friend  of  her  child- 
hood and  for  whom  she  had  a  true  affection, 
and  in  that  betrothal  had  been  quietly  glad. 
When,  one  midwinter  day,  she  and  Alan 
walked  through  an  upland  wood  and  looked 
across  the  snowy  pastures  and  the  white 
slopes  beyond,  all  aglow  with  sunlight,  and 
then  suddenly  turned  toward  each  other,  and 


62  Green  Fire 

saw  in  the  eyes  of  each  a  wonderful  light,  and 
the  next  moment  were  heart  to  heart,  it  was 
all  a  revelation. 

For  long  she  did  not  realize  what  it  meant. 
On  that  unforgettable  day,  when  they  had 
left  the  forest  ridge  and  were  near  Kerival 
again,  she  had  sat  for  a  time  on  one  of  the 
rude  cattle-gates  which  are  frequent  in  these 
woodlands,  while  Alan  had  leant  beside  her, 
looking  up  with  eyes  too  eloquent,  and  speak- 
ing of  what  he  dreamed,  with  sweet  stammer- 
ing speech  of  new  found  love. 

How  she  had  struggled,  mentally,  with  her 
duty,  as  she  conceived  it,  toward  Andrik. 
She  was  betrothed  to  him;  he  loved  her;  she 
loved  him  too,  although  even  already  she 
realized  that  there  is  a  love  which  is  not  only 
invincible  and  indestructible  but  that  comes 
unsought,  has  no  need  for  human  conven- 
tions, is  neither  moral  nor  immoral  but 
simply  all-potent  and  thenceforth  sovereign. 
To  yield  to  that  may  be  wrong;  but,  if  so, 
it  is  wrong  to  yield  to  the  call  of  hunger,  the 
cry  of  thirst,  the  whisper  of  sleep,  the  breath 
of  ill,  the  summons  of  death.  It  comes,  and 


The  Dream  and  the  Dreamers        63 

that  is  all.  The  green  earth  may  be  another 
Endymion,  and  may  dream  that  the  cold 
moonshine  is  all  in  all;  but  when  the  sun 
rises,  and  a  new  heat  and  glory  and  passion 
of  life  are  come,  then  Endymion  simply 
awakes. 

It  had  been  a  sadness  to  her  to  have  to  tell 
Andrik  she  no  longer  loved  him  as  he  was 
fain  to  be  loved.  He  would  have  no  finality, 
then;  he  held  her  to  the  bond — and  in  Brit- 
tany there  is  a  pledge  akin  to  the  "hand- 
fast  "  of  the  north,  which  makes  a  betrothal 
almost  as  binding  as  marriage. 

Andrik  de  Morvan  had  gone  to  the  Mar- 
quis de  Kerival,  and  told  him  what  Ynys  had 
said. 

"She  is  but  a  girl,"  the  seigneur  remarked 
coldly.  "And  you  are  wrong  in  thinking  she 
can  be  in  love  with  any  one  else.  There  is  no 
one  for  whom  she  can  care  so  much  as  for 
you;  no  one  whom  she  has  met  with  whom 
she  could  mate;  no  one  with  whom  I  would 
allow  her  to  mate." 

"  But  that  matters  little,  if  she  will  not 
marry  me! "  the  young  man  had  urged. 


64  Green  Fire 

"  My  daughter  is  my  daughter,  De  Morvan. 
I  cannot  compel  her  to  marry  you.  I  know 
her  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  she  would 
ignore  any  command  of  this  kind.  But 
women  are  fools;  and  one  can  get  them  to 
do  what  one  wants,  in  one  way  if  not  in 
another.  Let  her  be  a  while." 

"But  the  betrothal!" 

"Let  it  stand.  But  do  not  press  it.  In- 
deed, go  away  for  a  year.  You  are  heir  to 
your  mother's  estates  in  Touraine.  Go  there, 
work,  learn  all  you  can.  Meanwhile,  write 
occasionally  to  Ynys.  Do  not  address  her 
as  your  betrothed,  but  at  the  same  time  let 
her  see  that  it  is  the  lover  who  writes.  Then, 
after  a  few  months,  confide  that  your  absence 
is  due  solely  to  her,  that  you  cannot  live 
without  her;  and  that,  after  a  vain  exile,  you 
write  to  ask  if  you  may  come  and  see  her. 
They  are  all  the  same.  It  is  the  same  thing 
with  my  mares,  for  which  Kerival  is  so  famous. 
Some  are  wild,  some  are  docile,  some  skittish, 
some  vicious,  some  good,  a  few  flawless — 
but  .  .  .  Well,  they  are  all  mares.  One 
knows.  A  mare  is  not  a  sphinx.  These 


The  Dream  and  the  Dreamers          65 

complexities  of  which  we  hear  so  much,  what 
are  they?  Spindrift.  The  sea  is  simply  the 
sea,  all  the  same.  The  tide  ebbs,  though  the 
poets  reverse  nature.  Ebb  and  flow,  the  lift- 
ing wind,  the  lifted  wave;  we  know  the  way  of 
it  all.  It  has  its  mystery,  its  beauty;  but  we 
don't  really  expect  to  see  a  nereid  in  the 
hollow  of  the  wave,  or  to  catch  the  echo  of  a 
triton  in  the  call  of  the  wind.  As  for  Venus 
Anadyomene,  the  foam  of  which  she  was  made 
is  the  froth  in  poets'  brains.  Believe  me, 
Annaik,  my  friend,  women  are  simply  women; 
creatures  not  yet  wholly  tamed,  but  tractable 
in  the  main,  delightful,  valuable  often,  but 

certainly   not  worth    the   tribute   of   passion 

\ 

and  pain  they  obtain  from  foolish  men  like 
yourself." 

With  this  worldly  wisdom  Andrik  de  Mor- 
van  had  gone  home,  unconvinced.  He  loved 
Ynys;  and  sophistries  were  an  ineffectual 
balm. 

But  as  for  Ynys,  she  had  long  made  up  her 
mind.  Betrothal  or  no  betrothal,  she  be- 
longed now  only  to  one  man,  and  that  man, 
Alan  de  Kerival.  She  was  his  and  his  alone, 


66  Green  Fire 

by  every  natural  right.  How  could  she  help 
the  accident  by  which  she  had  cared  for 
Andrik  before  she  loved  Alan?  Now,  indeed, 
it  would  be  sacrilege  to  be  other  than  wholly 
Alan's.  Was  her  heart  not  his,  and  her  life 
with  her  heart,  and  with  both  her  deathless 
devotion? 

Alan,  she  knew,  trusted  her  absolutely. 
Before  he  went  back  to  Paris,  after  their  love 
was  no  longer  a  secret,  he  had  never  once 
asked  her  to  forfeit  any  thing  of  her  intimacy 
with  Andrik,  nor  had  he  even  urged  the  open 
cancelling  of  the  betrothal.  But  she  was  well 
aware  his  own  absolute  loyalty  involved  for 
him  a  like  loyalty  from  her;  and  she  knew 
that  forgiveness  does  not  belong  to  those 
natures  which  stake  all  upon  a  single  die. 

And  so  the  matter  stood  thus  still.  Ynys 
and  Andrik  de  Morvan  were  nominally  be- 
trothed; and  not  only  the  Marquis  and  the 
Marquise  de  Kerival,  but  Andrik  himself, 
looked  upon  the  bond  as  absolute. 

Perhaps  Lois  de  Kerival  was  not  without 
some  suspicion  as  to  how  'matters  were 
between  the  betrothed  pair.  Certainly  she 


The  Dream  and  the  Dreamers        67 

knew  that  Ynys  was  not  one  who  would  give 
up  any  real  or  imagined  happiness  because  of 
a  conventional  arrangement  or  on  account  of 
any  conventional  duty. 

In  Alan,  Ynys  found  all  that  he  found  in 
her.  When  she  looked  at  him,  she  wondered 
how  she  could  ever  have  dreamed  of  Andrik 
as  a  lover,  for  Alan  was  all  that  Andrik  was 
not.  How  proud  and  glad  she  felt  because  of 
his  great  height  and  strength,  his  vivid  feat- 
ures with  their  gray-blue  eyes  and  spiritual 
expression,  his  wavy  brown  hair,  a  very 
type  of  youthful  and  beautiful  manhood! 
Still  more  she  revered  and  loved  the  inner 
Alan  whom  she  knew  so  well,  and  recognized 
with  a  proud  humility  that  this  lover  of  hers, 
whom  the  great  Daniel  Dare  had  spoken  of  as 
a  man  of  genius,  was  not  only  her  knight,  but 
her  comrade,  her  mate,  her  ideal. 

Often  the  peasants  of  Kerival  had  specu- 
lated if  the  young  seigneur  would  join  hands 
with  her  or  with  Annaik.  Some  hoped  the 
one,  some  the  other;  but  those  who  knew 
Alan  otherwise  than  merely  by  sight  felt  cer- 
tain that  Ynys  was  the  future  bride. 


68  Green  Fire 

"They  are  made  for  each  other,"  old 
Jeanne  Mael,  the  village  authority,  was  wont 
to  exclaim;  "and  the  good  God  will  bring 
them  together  soon  or  late.  'Tis  a  fair,  sweet 
couple  they  are;  none  so  handsome  anywhere. 
That  tall,  dark  lass  will  be  a  good  mother 
when  her  hour  comes;  an'  the  child  o'  him 
an'  her  should  be  the  bonniest  in  the  whole 
wide  world." 

With    that    all    who     saw    them    together 

% 

agreed. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE    WALKER   IN    THE   NIGHT 

IT  was  an  hour  from  midnight  when  Alan 
rose,  opened  a  window,  and  looked  out.  The 
storm  was  over.  He  could  see  the  stars 
glistening  like  silver  fruit  among  the  upper 
branches  of  the  elms.  Behind  the  great 
cypress  known  as  the  Fate  of  Kerival  there 
was  a  golden  radiance,  as  though  a  disk  of 
radiant  bronze  were  being  slowly  wheeled 
round  and  round,  invisible  itself  but  casting  a 
quivering  gleam  upon  the*  fibrous  undersides 
of  the  cypress  spires.  Soon  the  moon  would 
lift  upward,  and  her  paling  gold  become  foam- 
white  along  the  wide  reaches  of  the  forest. 

The  wind  had  suddenly  fallen.  In  this 
abrupt  lapse  into  silence  there  was  something 
mysterious.  After  so  much  violence,  after 
that  wild,  tempestuous  cry,  such  stillness! 
There  was  no  more  than  a  faint  rustling 


70  Green  Fire 

sound,  as  though  invisible  feet  were  stealthily 
flying  along  the  pathway  of  the  upper  boughs 
and  through  the  dim  denies  in  the  dense 
coverts  of  oak  and  beech  in  the  very  heart 
of  the  woods.  Only,  from  hitherward  of  the 
unseen  dunes  floated  a  melancholy,  sighing 
refrain,  the  echo  of  the  eddying  sea-breath 
among  the  pines.  Beyond  the  last  sands, 
the  deep,  hollow  boom  of  the  sea  itself. 

To  stay  indoors  seemed  to  Alan  a  wanton 
forfeiture  of  beauty.  The  fragrance  of  the 
forest  intoxicated  him.  Spring  was  come,  in- 
deed. This  wild  storm  had  ruined  nothing, 
for  at  its  fiercest  it  had  swept  overhead;  and 
on  the  morrow  the  virginal  green  world  would 
be  more  beautiful  than  ever.  Everywhere  the 
green  fire  of  spring  would  be  litten  anew.  A 
green  flame  would  pass  from  meadow  to 
hedgerow,  from  hedgerow  to  the  tangled 
thickets  of  bramble  and  dog-rose,  from  the 
underwoods  to  the  inmost  forest  glades. 
Everywhere  song  would  be  to  the  birds, 
everywhere  young  life  would  pulse,  every- 
where the  rhythm  of  a  new  rapture  would  run 
rejoicing.  The  miracle  of  spring  would  be 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  71 

accomplished  in  the  sight  of  all  men,  of  all 
birds  and  beasts,  of  all  green  life.  Each,  in  its 
kind,  would  have  a  swifter  throb  in  the  red 
blood  or  the  vivid  sap. 

No,  he  could  not  wait.  No,  Alan  added  to 
himself  with  a  smile,  not  even  though  to  sleep 
in  the  House  of  Kerival  was  to  be  beneath  the 
same  roof  as  Ynys — to  be  but  a  few  yards,  a 
passage,  a  corridor  away.  Ah!  for  sure,  he 
could  dream  his  dream  as  well  out  there 
among  the  gleaming  boughs,  in  the  golden 
sheen  of  the  moon,  under  the  stars.  Was 
there  not  the  silence  for  deep  peace,  and  the 
voice  of  the  unseen  sea  for  echo  to  the  deep 
tides  of  love  which  surged  obscurely  in  his 
heart?  Yes,  he  would  go  out  to  that  beauti- 
ful redemption  of  the  night.  How  often,  in 
fevered  Paris,  he  had  known  that  healing, 
either  when  his  gaze  was  held  by  the  quiet 
stars,  as  he  kept  his  hours-long  vigil,  or  when 
he  escaped  westward  along  the  banks  of  the 
Seine,  and  could  wander  undisturbed  across 
grassy  spaces  or  under  shadowy  boughs! 

In  the  great  hall  of  the  Manor  he  found 
white-haired  Matieu  asleep  in  his  wicker 


72  Green  Fire 

chair.  The  old  man  silently  opened  the 
heavy  oaken  door,  and,  with  a  smile  which 
somewhat  perplexed  Alan,  bowed  to  him  as 
he  passed  forth. 

Could  it  be  a  space  only  of  a  few  hours  that 
divided  him  from  his  recent  arrival,  he  won- 
dered. The  forest  was  no  longer  the  same. 
Then  it  was  swept  by  the  wind,  lashed  by  the 
rains,  and  was  everywhere  tortured  into  a 
tempestuous  music.  Now  it  was  so  still, 
save  for  a  ceaseless  faint  dripping  from  wet 
leaves  and  the  conduits  of  a  myriad  sprays 
and  branches,  that  he  could  hear  the  occa- 
sional shaking  of  the  wings  of  hidden  birds, 
ruffling  out  their  plumage  because  of  the 
moonlit  quietudes  that  were  come  again. 

And  then,  too,  he  had  seen  Ynys;  had  held 
her  hand  in  his;  had  looked  in  her  beautiful, 
hazel-green  eyes,  dusky  and  wonderful  as  a  star- 
lit gloaming  because  of  the  depth  of  her  dear 
love;  had  pressed  his  lips  to  hers,  and  felt  the 
throbbing  of  her  heart  against  his  own.  There, 
in  the  forest-edge,  it  was  difficult  to  realize 
all  this.  It  would  be  time  to  turn  soon,  to 
walk  back  along  the  sycamore-margined  Seine 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  73 

embankment,  to  reach  the  Tour  de  1'Ile  and 
be  at  his  post  in  the  observatory  again.  Then 
he  glanced  backward,  and  saw  a  red  light  shin- 
ing from  the  room  where  the  Marquis  de 
Kerival  sat  up  late  night  after  night,  and  he 
wondered  if  Ynys  were  still  there,  or  if  she 
were  now  in  her  room  and  asleep,  or  if  she 
lay  in  a  waking  dream. 

For  a  time  he  stared  at  this  beacon.  Then, 
troubled  by  many  thoughts,  but  most  by  his 
love,  he  moved  slowly  into  one  of  the  beech 
avenues  which  radiated  from  the  fantastic 
mediaeval  sun-dial  at  the  end  of  the  tulip 
garden  in  front  of  the  chateau. 

While  the  moon  slowly  lifted  from  branch  to 
branch  a  transient  stir  of  life  came  into  the 
forest. 

Here  and  there  he  heard  low  cries,  some- 
times breaking  into  abrupt  eddies  of  arrested 
song;  thrushes,  he  knew,  ever  swift  to  slide 
their  music  out  against  any  tide  of  light.  Once 
or  twice  a  blackcap,  in  one  of  the  beeches 
near  the  open,  sang  so  poignantly  a  brief 
strain  that  he  thought  it  that  of  a  nightingale. 
Later,  in  an  oak  glade,  he  heard  the  unmis- 
takable song  itself, 


74  Green  Fire 

The  sea  sound  came  hollowly  under  the 
boughs  like  a  spent  billow.  Instinctively  he 
turned  that  way,  and  so  crossed  a  wide  glade 
that  opened  on  the  cypress  alley  to  the  west 
of  the  chateau. 

Just  as  he  emerged  upon  this  glade  he 
thought  he  saw  a  stooping  figure  glide  swiftly 
athwart  the  northern  end  of  it  and  disappear 
among  the  cypresses.  Startled,  he  stood  still. 

No  one  stirred.  Nothing  moved.  He 
could  hear  no  sound  save  the  faint  sighing  of 
the  wind-eddy  among  the  pines,  the  dull 
rhythmic  beat  of  the  sea  falling  heavily  upon 
the  sands. 

"It  must  have  been  a  delusion,"  he  mut- 
tered. Yet,  for  the  moment,  he  had  felt  cer- 
tain that  the  crouching  figure  of  a  man  had 
moved  swiftly  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  soli- 
tary wide-spreading  thorn  he  knew  so  well, 
and  had  disappeared  into  the  darker  shadow 
of  the  cypress  alley. 

After  all,  what  did  it  matter?  It  could 
only  be  some  poor  fellow  poaching.  With  a 
smile,  Alan  remembered  how  often  he  had 
sinned  likewise.  He  would  listen,  however, 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  75 

and  give  the  man  a  fright,  for  he  knew  that 
Tristran  de  Kerival  was  stern  in  his  resent- 
ment against  poachers,  partly  because  he  was 
liberal  in  certain  woodland-freedom  he 
granted,  on  the  sole  condition  that  none  of 
the  peasants  ever  came  within  the  home 
domain. 

Soon,  however,  he  was  convinced  that  he 
was  mistaken.  Deep  silence  prevailed  every- 
where. Almost,  he  fancied,  he  could  hear 
the  soft  fall  of  the  dew.  A  low  whirring 
sound  showed  that  a  night-jar  had  already 
begun  his  summer  wooing.  Now  that,  as  he 
knew  from  Ynys,  the  cuckoo  was  come,  and 
that  the  swallows  had  suddenly  multiplied 
from  a  score  of  pioneers  into  a  battalion  of 
ever-flying  darts;  now  that  he  had  listened  to 
the  nightingales  calling  through  the  moonlit 
woods  and  had  heard  the  love-note  of  the 
night-jar,  the  hot  weather  must  be  come  at 
last — that  glorious  tide  of  golden  life  which 
flows  from  April  to  June  and  makes  them  the 
joy  of  the  world. 

Slowly  he  walked  across  the  glade.  At  the 
old  thorn  he  stopped,  and  leaned  a  while 


76  Green  Fire 

against  its  rugged,  twisted  bole,  recalling  inci- 
dent after  incident  associated  with  it. 

It  was  strangely  restful  there.  Around  him 
was  the  quiet  sea  of  moonlight;  yonder, 
behind  the  cypresses  and  the  pine-crowned 
dunes,  was  the  quiet  sea  of  moving  waters; 
yet,  in  the  one,  there  was  scarce  less  of 
silence  than  in  the  other.  Ah!  he  remem- 
bered abruptly,  on  just  such  a  night,  years 
ago,  he  and  Annaik  had  stood  long  there, 
hand  in  hand,  listening  to  a  nightingale. 
What  a  strange  girl  she  was,  even  then! 
Well  he  recalled  how,  at  the  end  of  the  song 
and  when  the  little  brown  singer  had  slipped 
from  its  bough,  like  a  stone  slung  from  a 
sling,  Annaik  had  laughed,  though  he  knew 
not  at  what,  and  had  all  at  once  unfastened 
her  hair,  and  let  its  tawny  bronze-red  mass 
fall  about  her  shoulders.  She  was  so  beauti- 
ful and  wild  that  he  had  clasped  her  in  his 
arms,  and  had  kissed  her  again  and  again.  And 
Annaik  .  .  .  oh,  he  remembered,  half  shyly, 
half  exultantly  .  .  .  she  had  laughed  again, 
but  more  low,  and  had  tied  the  long  drifts  of 
her  hair  around  his  neck  like  a  blood-red  scarf. 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  77 

It  gave  him  a  strange  emotion  to  recall  all 
this.  Did  Annaik  also  think  of  it  ever,  he 
wondered?  Then,  too,  had  they  not  prom- 
ised somewhat  to  each  other?  Yes  .  .  . 
Annaik  had  said:  "  One  night  we  shall  come 
here  again,  and  then,  if  you  do  not  love  me 
as  much  as  you  do  now,  I  shall  strangle  you 
with  my  hair:  and  if  you  love  me  more  we 
shall  go  away  into  the  forest,  and  never  re- 
turn, or  not  for  long,  long;  but  if  you  do  not 
love  me  at  all,  then  you  are  to  tell  me  so, 
and  I  will " 

"What?"  he  had  asked,  when  she  stopped 
abruptly. 

At  that,  however,  she  had  said  no  more  as 
to  what  was  in  her  mind,  but  had  asked  him 
to  carve  upon  the  thorn  the  "A"  of  her  name 
and  the  "A"  of  his  into  a  double  "A."  Yes, 
of  course,  he  had  done  this.  Where  was  it?  he 
pondered.  Surely  midway  on  the  southward 
side,  for  then  as  now  the  moonlight  would  be 
there. 

With  an  eagerness  of  which  he  was  conscious 
he  slipped  from  where  he  leaned,  and  ex- 
amined the  bole  of  the  tree.  A  heavy  branch 


78  Green  Fire 

intervened.  This  he  caught  and  withheld, 
and  the  light  flooded  upon  the  gnarled  trunk. 

With  a  start,  Alan  almost  relinquished  the 
branch.  There,  unmistakable,  was  a  large 
carven  "  A,"  but  not  only  was  it  the  old  double 
"A"  made  into  a  single  letter,  but  clearly 
the  change  had  been  made  quite  recently, 
apparently  within  a  few  hours.  Moreover,  it 
was  now  linked  to  another  letter.  The  legend 
ran:  "A  &•  /." 

Puzzled,  he  looked  close.  There  could  be 
no  mistake.  The  cutting  was  recent.  The 
"y,"  indeed,  might  have  been  that  moment 
done.  Suddenly  an  idea  flashed  into  his  mind. 
He  stooped  and  examined  the  mossed  roots. 
Yes,  there  were  the  fragments.  He  took  one 
and  put  it  between  his  teeth;  the  wood  was 
soft,  and  had  the  moisture  of  fibre  recently 
severed. 

Who  was  "  J  "  ?  Alan  pondered  over  every 
name  he  could  think  of.  He  knew  no  one 
whose  baptismal  name  began  thus,  with  the 
exception  of  Jervaise  de  Morvan,  the  brother 
of  Andrik,  and  he  was  married  and  resi- 
dent in  distant  Pondicherry.  Otherwise 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  79 

there  was  but  Jak  Bourzak,  the  woodcutter — 
a  bent,  broken-down  old  man  who  could  not 
have  cut  the  letters  for  the  good  reason  that 
he  was  unable  to  write  and  was  so  ignorant 
that,  even  in  that  remote  region,  he  was  called 
Jak  the  Stupid.  Alan  was  still  pondering  over 
this  when  suddenly  the  stillness  was  broken 
by  the  loud  screaming  of  peacocks. 

Kerival  was  famous  for  these  birds,  of 
which  the  peasantry  stood  in  superstitious 
awe.  Indeed,  a  legend  was  current  to  the 
effect  that  Tristran  de  Kerival  maintained 
those  resplendent  creatures  because  they  were 
the  souls  of  his  ancestors,  or  such  of  them  as 
before  death  had  not  been  able  to  gain  absolu- 
tion for  their  sins.  When  they  were  heard 
crying  harshly  before  rain  or  at  sundown, 
or  sometimes  in  the  moonlight,  the  hearers 
shuddered.  "The  lost  souls  of  Kerival"  be- 
came a  saying,  and  there  were  prophets  here 
and  there  who  foreboded  ill  for  Tristran  the 
Silent,  or  some  one  near  and  dear  to  him, 
whenever  that  strange  clamor  rang  forth 
unexpectedly. 

Alan  himself  was  surprised,  startled.     The 


8o  Green  Fire 

night  was  so  still,  no  further  storm  was  immi- 
nent, and  the  moon  had  been  risen  for  some 
time.  Possibly  the  peacocks  had  strolled  into 
the  cypress  alley,  to  strut  to  and  fro  in  the 
moonshine,  as  their  wont  was  in  their  wooing 
days,  and  two  of  them  had  come  into  jealous 
dispute. 

Still  that  continuous  harsh  tumult  seemed 
rather  to  have  the  note  of  alarm  than 
of  quarrel.  Alan  walked  to  the  seaward 
side  of  the  thorn,  but  still  kept  within  its 
shadow. 

The  noise  was  now  not  only  clamant  but 
startling.  The  savage  screaming,  like  that  of 
barbaric  trumpets,  filled  the  night. 

Swiftly  the  listener  crossed  the  glade,  and 
was  soon  among  the  cypresses.  There,  while 
the  dull  thud  of  the  falling  seas  was  more  than 
ever  audible,  the  screams  of  the  peacocks  were 
so  insistent  that  he  had  ears  for  these  alone. 

At  the  eastern  end  of  the  alley  the  glade 
broke  away  into  scattered  pines,  and  from 
these  swelled  a  series  of  low  dunes.  Alan 
could  see  them  clearly  from  where  he  stood, 
under  the  boughs  of  a  huge  yew,  one  of  several 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  81 

that  grew  here  and  there  among  their  solemn, 
columnar  kin. 

His  gaze  was  upon  this  open  space  when, 
abruptly,  he  started.  A  tall,  slim  figure, 
coming  from  the  shore,  moved  slowly  inland 
across  the  dunes. 

Who  could  this  walker  in  the  dark  be? 
The  shadowy  Walker  in  the  Night  herself, 
mayhap;  the  dreaded  soulless  woman  who 
wanders  at  dead  of  night  through  forests,  or 
by  desolate  shores,  or  by  the  banks  of  the 
perilous  marais. 

Often  he  had  heard  of  her.  When  any  man 
met  this  woman,  his  fate  depended  on  whether 
he  saw  her  before  she  caught  sight  of  him. 
If  she  saw  him  first,  she  had  but  to  sing  her 
wild,  strange  song,  and  he  would  have  to  go 
to  her;  and  when  he  was  before  her  two 
flames  would  come  out  of  her  eyes,  and  one 
flame  would  burn  up  his  life  as  though  it  were 
dry  tinder,  and  the  other  would  wrap  round 
his  soul  like  a  scarlet  shawl,  and  she  would 
take  it  and  live  with  it  in  a  cavern  under- 
ground for  a  year  and  a  day.  And  on  that 

last  day  she  would  let  it  go,  as  a  hare  is  let 
6 


82  Green  Fire 

go  a  furlong  beyond  a  greyhound.  Then  it 
would  fly  like  a  windy  shadow  from  glade  to 
glade  or  from  dune  to  dune,  in  the  vain  hope 
to  reach  a  wayside  Calvary;  but  ever  in  vain. 
Sometimes  the  Holy  Tree  would  almost  be 
reached;  then,  with  a  gliding  swiftness,  like 
a  flood  racing  down  a  valley,  the  Walker  in 
the  Night  would  be  alongside  the  fugitive. 
Now  and  again  unhappy  night-farers — 
unhappy  they,  for  sure,  for  never  does  weal 
remain  with  any  one  who  hears  what  no  human 
ear  should  hearken — would  be  startled  by 
a  sudden  laughing  in  the  darkness.  This  was 
when  some  such  terrible  chase  had  happened, 
and  when  the  creature  of  the  night  had  taken 
the  captive  soul,  in  the  last  moments  of  the 
last  hour  of  the  last  day  of  its  possible  redemp- 
tion, and  rent  it  this  way  and  that,  as  a  hawk 
scatters  the  feathered  fragments  of  its 
mutilated  quarry. 

Alan  thought  of  this  wild  legend,  and 
shuddered.  Years  ago  he  had  been  foolhardy 
enough  to  wish  to  meet  the  phantom,  to  see 
her  before  she  saw  him,  and  to  put  a  spell 
upon  her.  For,  if  this  were  possible,  he  could 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  83 

compel  her  to  whisper  some  of  her  secret  lore, 
and  she  could  give  him  spells  to  keep  him 
scathless  till  old  age. 

But  as,  with  fearful  gaze,  he  stared  at  the 
,  figure  which  so  leisurely  moved  toward  the 
cypress  alley,  he  was  puzzled  by  some  vague 
resemblance,  by  something  familiar.  The 
figure  was  that  of  a  woman,  unmistakably; 
and  she  moved  as  though  she  were  in  a 
dream. 

But  who  could  it  be,  there,  in  that  lonely 
place,  at  that  hour  of  the  night?  Who  would 
venture  or  care  .  .  . 

In  a  flash  all  was  clear.     It  was  Annaik! 

There  was  no  room  for  doubt.  He  might 
have  known  her  lithe  walk,  her  wildwood 
grace,  her  peculiar  carriage;  but  before 
recognition  of  these  had  come,  he  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  hair  in  the  moonlight.  It 
was  like  burnished  brass,  in  that  yellow  shine. 
There  was  no  other  such  hair  in  the  world,  he 
believed. 

But  .  .  .  Annaik!  What  could  she  be 
doing  there?  How  had  she  been  able  to  leave 
the  chateau;  when  had  she  stolen  forth;  where 


84  Green  Fire 

had  she  wandered;  whither  was  she  going;  to 
what  end? 

These  and  other  thoughts  stormed  through 
Alan's  mind.  Almost — he  muttered  below  his 
breath — almost  he  would  rather  have  seen  the 
Walker  in  the  Night. 

As  she  drew  nearer  he  could  see  her  as 
clearly  as  though  it  were  daylight.  She 
appeared  to  be  thinking  deeply,  and  ever  and 
again  be  murmuring  disconnected  phrases. 
His  heart  smote  him  when  he  saw  her,  twice, 
raise  her  arms  and  then  wring  her  hands  as  if 
in  sore  straits  of  sorrow. 

He  did  not  stir.  He  would  wait,  he  thought. 
It  might  add  to  Annaik's  strange  grief,  if 
grief  it  were,  to  betray  his  presence.  Again, 
was  it  possible  that  she  was  there  to  meet 
some  one — to  encounter  the  "J"  whose 
initial  was  beside  her  own  on  the  old  thorn? 
How  pale  she  was!  he  noticed.  A  few  yards 
away  her  dress  caught;  she  hesitated,  slowly 
disengaged  herself,  but  did  not  advance  again. 
For  the  third  time  she  wrung  her  hands. 

What  could  it  mean?  Alan  was  about  to 
move  forward  when  he  heard  her  voice: 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  85 

"Oh,  Alan,  Alan,  Alan!" 

What  .  .  .  had  she  seen  him?  He  flushed 
there  in  the  shadow,  and  words  rose  to  his 
lips.  Then  he  was  silent,  for  she  spoke  again: 

"I  hate  her  ...  I  hate  her  .  .  .  not 
for  herself,  no,  no,  no  ...  but  because 
she  has  taken  you  from  me.  Why  does  Ynys 
have  you,  all  of  you,  when  I  have  loved  you  all 
along?  None  of  us  knew  any  thing — none, 
till  last  Noel.  Then  we  knew;  only,  neither 
you  nor  Ynys  knew  that  I  loved  you  as  a  soul 
in  hell  loves  the  memory  of  its  earthly  joy." 

Strange  words,  there  in  that  place,  at  that 
hour;  but  far  stranger  the  passionless  voice 
in  which  the  passionate  words  were  uttered. 
Bewildered,  Alan  leaned  forward,  intent. 
The  words  had  waned  to  a  whisper,  but  were 
now  incoherent.  Fragmentary  phrases,  irrele- 
vant words,  what  could  it  all  mean? 

Suddenly  an  idea  made  him  start.  He 
moved  slightly,  so  as  to  catch  the  full 
flood  of  a  moonbeam  as  it  fell  on  Annaik's 
face. 

Yes,  he  was  right.  Her  eyes  were  open, 
but  were  fixed  in  an  unseeing  stare.  For 


86  Green  Fire 

the  first  time,  too,  he  noted  that  she  was 
clad  simply  in  a  long  dressing-gown.  Her 
feet  were  bare,  and  were  glistening  with  the 
wet  they  had  gathered;  on  her  lustrous  hair, 
nothing  but  the  moonlight. 

He  had  remembered.  Both  Annaik  and 
Ynys  had  a  tendency  to  somnambulism,  a  trait 
inherited  from  their  father.  It  had  been 
cured  years  ago,  he  had  understood.  But 
here — here  was  proof  that  Annaik  at  any  rate 
was  still  subject  to  that  mysterious  malady  of 
sleep. 

That  she  was  absolutely  trance-bound  he 
saw  clearly.  But  what  he  should  do — that 
puzzled,  that  bewildered  him. 

Slowly  Annaik,  after  a  brief  hesitancy  when 
he  fancied  she  was  about  to  awake,  moved  for- 
ward again. 

She  came  so  close  that  almost  she  brushed 
against  him;  would  have  done  so,  indeed,  but 
that  he  was  hidden  from  contact  as  well  as 
from  sight  by  the  boughs  of  the  yew,  which  on 
that  side  swept  to  the  ground. 

Alan  put  out  his  hand.  Then  he  withdrew 
it.  No,  he  thought,  he  would  let  her  go  un- 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  87 

molested,  and,  if  possible,  unawaked:  but  he 
would  follow  her,  lest  evil  befell.  She  passed. 
His  nerves  thrilled.  What  was  this  strange 
emotion,  that  gave  him  a  sensation  almost  as 
though  he  had  seen  his  own  wraith?  But  dif- 
ferent .  .  .  for,  oh — he  could  not  wait  to 
think  about  that,  he  muttered. 

He  was  about  to  stoop  and  emerge  from  the 
yew-boughs  when  he  heard  a  sound  which 
made  him  stop  abruptly. 

It  was  a  step;  of  that  he  felt  sure.  And  at 
hand,  too.  The  next  moment  he  was  glad  he 
had  not  disclosed  himself,  for  a  crouching 
figure  stealthily  followed  Annaik. 

Surely  that  was  the  same  figure  he  had  seen 
cross  the  glade,  the  figure  that  had  slipped 
from  the  thorn? 

If  so,  could  it  be  the  person  who  had  cut  the 
letter  "  J  "  on  the  bark  of  the  tree?  The  man 
kept  so  much  in  the  shadow  that  it  was  difficult 
to  obtain  a  glimpse  of  his  face.  Alan  waited. 
In  a  second  or  two  he  would  have  to  pass  the 
yew. 

Just  before  the  mysterious  pursuer  reached 
the  old  tree,  he  stopped.  Alan  furtively 


88  Green   Fire 

glanced  to  his  left.  He  saw  that  Annaik  had 
suddenly  halted.  She  stood  intent,  as  though 
listening.  Possibly  she  had  awaked.  He 
saw  her  lips  move.  She  spoke,  or  called 
something;  what,  he  could  not  hear  because  of 
the  intermittent  screaming  of  the  peacocks. 

When  he  looked  at  the  man  in  the  shadow 
he  started.  A  moonbeam  had  penetrated  the 
obscurity,  and  the  face  was  white  against  the 
black  background  of  a  cypress. 

Alan  recognized  the  man  in  a  moment.  It 
was  Jud  Kerbastiou,  the  forester.  What  .  .  . 
was  it  possible:  could  he  be  the  "  J  "  who  had 
linked  his  initial  with  that  of  Annaik? 

It  was  incredible.  The  man  was  not  only  a 
boor,  but  one  with  rather  an  ill  repute.  At 
any  rate,  he  was  known  to  be  a  poacher  as 
well  as  a  woodlander  of  the  old  Breton  kind — 
men  who  would  never  live  save  in  the  forest, 
any  more  than  a  gypsy  would  become  a  clerk 
and  live  in  a  street. 

It  was  said  among  the  peasants  of  Kerival 
that  his  father,  old  louenn  Kerbastiou,  the 
charcoal  burner,  was  an  illegitimate  brother 
of  the  late  Marquis — so  that  Jud,  or  Judik,  as 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  89 

he  was  generally  called,  was  a  blood-relation 
of  the  great  folk  at  the  chateau.  Once  this 
had  been  hinted  to  the  Marquis  Tristran.  It 
was  for  the  first  and  last  time.  Since  then, 
Jud  Kerbastiou  had  become  more  morose 
than  ever,  and  was  seldom  seen  among  his 
fellows.  When  not  with  his  infirm  old  father, 
at  the  hut  in  the  woods  that  were  to  the  east- 
ward of  the  forest-hamlet  of  Ploumael,  he  was 
away  in  the  densely  wooded  reaches  to  the 
south.  Occasionally  he  was  seen  upon  the 
slopes  of  the  Black  Hills,  but  this  was  only 
in  winter,  when  he  crossed  over  into  Upper 
Brittany  with  a  mule-train  laden  with  cut 
fagots. 

That  he  was  prowling  about  the  home 
domain  of  Kerival  was  itself  ominous;  but 
that  in  this  stealthy  manner  he  should  be 
following  Annaik  was  to  Allan  a  matter  of 
genuine  alarm.  Surely  the  man  could  mean 
no  evil  against  one  of  the  Big  House,  and 
one,  too,  so  much  admired,  and  in  a  certain 
way  loved,  as  Annaik  de  Kerival?  And  yet, 
the  stealthy  movements  of  the  peasant,  his 
crouching  gait,  his  patient  dogging  of  her 


90  Green  Fire 

steps — and  this,  doubtless,  ever  since  she 
had  crossed  the  glade  from  the  forest  to 
the  cypresses — all  this  had  a  menacing 
aspect. 

At  that  moment  the  peacocks  ceased  their 
wild  miaulling.  Low  and  clear,  Annaik's 
voice  same  thrillingly  along  the  alley: 

11  Alan!  Alan!  Oh,  Alan,  darling,  are  you 
there?" 

His  heart  beat.  Then  a  flush  sprang  to  his 
brow,  as  with  sudden  anger  he  heard  Jud 
Kerbastiou  reply,  in  a  thick,  muffled  tone: 

"Yes,  yes,  .  .  .  and,  and  I  love  you, 
Annaik! " 

Possibly  the  sleeper  heard  and  understood. 
Even  at  that  distance  Alan  saw  the  light  upon 
her  face,  the  light  from  within. 

Judik  the  peasant  slowly  advanced.  His 
stealthy  tread  was  light  as  that  of  a  fox.  He 
stopped  when  he  was  within  a  yard  of  Annaik. 
"Annaik,"  he  muttered  hoarsely,  "Annaik, 
it  was  I  who  was  out  among  the  beeches  in 
front  of  the  chateau  while  the  storm  was  rag- 
ing. Sure  you  must  have  known  it;  else,  why 
would  you  come  out?  I  love  you,  white 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  91 

woman.  I  am  only  a  peasant  .  .  .  but  I 
love  you,  Annaik  de  Kerival,  I  love  you — I 
love  you — I  love  you!" 

Surely  she  was  on  the  verge  of  waking! 
The  color  had  come  back  to  her  white  face, 
her  lips  moved,  as  though  stirred  by  a  breath 
from  within.  Her  hands  were  clasped,  and 
the  fingers  intertwisted  restlessly. 

Kerbastiou  was  so  wrought  that  he  did  not 
hear  steps  behind  him  as  Alan  moved  swiftly 
forward. 

"  Sure,  you  will  be  mine  at  last,"  the  man 
cried  hoarsely,  "mine,  and  none  to  dispute 
.  .  .  ay,  and  this  very  night,  too. " 

Slowly  Jud  put  out  an  arm.  His  hand 
almost  touched  that  of  Annaik.  Suddenly  he 
was  seized  from  behind,  and  a  hand  was 
claspt  firmly  upon  his  mouth.  He  did  not 
see  who  his  unexpected  assailant  was,  but 
he  heard  the  whisper  that  was  against  his 
ear: 

"  If  you  make  a  sound,  I  will  strangle  you 
to  death." 

With  a  nod,  he  showed  that  he  understood. 

"  If  I  let  go  for  the  moment,  will  you  come 


92  Green   Fire 

back  under  the  trees  here,  where  she  cannot 
see  or  hear  us?  " 

Another  nod. 

Alan  relaxed  his  hold,  but  did  not  wholly 
relinquish  his  grip.  Kerbastiou  turned  and 
looked  at  him. 

"  Oh,  it's  you/"  he  muttered,  as  he  followed 
his  assailant  into  the  shadow  some  yards  back. 

"Yes,  Judik  Kerbastiou,  it  is  I,  Alan  de 
Kerival." 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want?  " 

"What  do  I  want?  How  dare  you  be  so 
insolent,  fellow?  you,  who  have  been  follow- 
ing a  defenceless  woman!" 

"  What  have  you  been  doing?" 

"I  ...  oh,  of  course  I  have  been  following 
Mile.  Annaik  also  .  .  .  but  that  was  .  .  .  that 
was  ...  to  protect  her." 

"And  is  it  not  possible  I  might  follow  her 
for  the  same  reason?  " 

"It  is  not  the  same  thing  at  all,  Judik  Ker- 
bastiou, and  you  know  it.  In  the  first  place 
you  have  no  right  to  be  here  at  all.  In  the 
next,  I  am  Mile.  Annaik's  cousin,  and " 

"And  I  am  her  lover." 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  93 

Alan  stared  at  the  man  in  sheer  amaze. 
He  spoke  quietly  and  assuredly,  nor  seemed 
in  the  least  degree  perturbed. 

"  But  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  why,  Kerbastiou,  it 
is  impossible!  " 

"  What  is  impossible?  " 

"  That  Annaik  could  love  you. " 

"  I  did  not  say  she  loved  me.  I  said  I  was 
her  lover." 

"And  you  believe  that  you,  a  peasant,  a 
man  held  in  ill  repute  even  among  your  fellow- 
peasants,  a  homeless  woodlander,  can  gain  the 
love  of  the  daughter  of  your  seigneur,  of  a 
woman  nurtured  as  she  has  been? " 

"You  speak  like  a  book,  as  the  saying  is, 
M.  de  Kerival."  Judik  uttered  the  words 
mockingly,  and  with  raised  voice.  Annaik, 
who  was  still  standing  as  one  entranced, 
heard  it:  for  she  whispered  again,  "Alan! 
Alan!  Alan!" 

"  Hush,  man!  she  will  hear.  Listen, 
Judik,  I  don't  want  to  speak  harshly.  You 
know  me.  Every  one  here  does.  You  must 
be  well  aware  that  I  am  the  last  person  to 
despise  you  or  any  man  because  you  are  poor 


94  Green  Fire 

and  unfortunate.  But  you  must  see  that  such 
a  love  as  this  of  yours  is  madness." 

"  All  love  is  madness." 

"  Oh,  yes;  of  course!  But  look  you,  Judik, 
what  right  have  you  to  be  here  at  all,  in  the 
home  domain,  in  the  dead  of  night? " 

"  You  love  Ynys  de  Kerival?  " 

"Yes  .  .  .  well,  yes,  I  do  love  her;  but 
what  then?  What  is  that  to  you? " 

"Well,  I  love  Annaik.  I  am  here  by  the 
same  right  as  you  are." 

"You  forget.  /  am  welcome.  You  come 
by  stealth.  Do  you  mean  for  a  moment  to  say 
that  you  are  here  to  meet  Mile.  Annaik  by 
appointment? " 

The  man  was  silent. 

"Judik  Kerbastiou!" 

"Yes?" 

"You  are  a  coward.  You  followed  this 
woman  whom  you  say  you  love  with  intent  to 
rob  her." 

"You  are  a  fool,  Alan  de  Kerival." 

Alan  raised  his  arm.  Then,  ashamed,  he  let 
it  fall. 

"Will  you  go?     Will  you  go  now,  at  once, 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  95 

or  shall  I  wake  Mile.  Annaik,  and  tell  her 
what  I  have  seen — and  from  what  I  believe  I 
have  saved  her?" 

"  No,  you  need  not  wake  her,  nor  tell  her 
any  thing.  I  know  she  has  never  even  given 
me  a  thought." 

Suddenly  the  man  bowed  his  head.  A  sob 
burst  through  the  dark. 

Alan  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Judik !  Judik  Kerbastiou!  I  am  sorry 
for  you  from  my  heart.  But  go  ...  go  now, 
at  once.  Nothing  shall  be  said  of  this.  No 
one  shall  know  any  thing.  If  you  wish  me 
to  tell  my  cousin,  I  will.  Then  she  can  see 
you  or  not,  as  she  may  wish." 

"I  go.  But  .  .  .  yes,  tell  her.  To-morrow. 
Tell  her  to-morrow.  Only  I  would  not  have 
hurt  her.  Tell  her  that.  I  go  now.  Adiou" 

With  that  Judik  Kerbastiou  lifted  his 
shaggy  head,  and  turned  his  great  black, 
gypsy-wild  eyes  upon  Alan. 

"She  loves  you"  he  said  simply.  Then  he 
stepped  lightly  over  the  path,  passed  between 
the  cypresses,  and  moved  out  across  the  glade. 
Alan  watched  his  dark  figure  slide  through 


96  Green  Fire 

the  moonlight.  He  traversed  the  glade  to  the 
right  of  the  thorn.  For  nearly  half  a  mile  he  was 
visible;  then  he  turned  and  entered  the  forest. 

An  hour  later  two  figures  moved,  in  absolute 
silence,  athwart  the  sand-dunes  beyond  the 
cypress  alley. 

Hand  in  hand  they  moved.  Their  faces 
were  in  deep  shadow,  for  the  moonlight  was 
now  obscured  by  a  league-long  cloud. 

When  they  emerged  from  the  scattered  pines 
to  the  seaward  of  the  chateau,  the  sentinel 
peacocks  saw  them,  and  began  once  more 
their  harsh,  barbaric  screams. 

The  twain  unclasped  their  hands,  and 
walked  steadily  forward,  speaking  no  word, 
not  once  looking  one  at  the  other. 

As  they  entered  the  yew-close  at  the  end  of 
the  old  garden  of  the  chateau  they  were  as 
shadows  drowned  in  night.  For  some  minutes 
they  were  invisible;  though,  from  above,  the 
moon  shone  upon  their  white  faces  and  on 
their  frozen  stillness.  The  peacocks  sullenly 
ceased. 

Once  more  they   emerged  into  the  moon- 


The  Walker  in  the  Night  97 

dusk.  As  they  neared  the  ivied  gables  of  the 
west  wing  of  the  Manor  the  cloud  drifted 
from  the  moon,  and  her  white  flood  turned 
the  obscurity  into  a  radiance  wherein  every 
object  stood  forth  as  clear  as  at  noon. 

Alan's  face  was  white  as  are  the  faces  of  the 
dead.  His  eyes  did  not  once  lift  from  the 
ground.  But  in  Annaik's  face  was  a  flush, 
and  her  eyes  were  wild  and  beautiful  as  fall- 
ing stars. 

It  was  not  an  hour  since  she  had  wakened 
from  her  trance;  not  an  hour,  and  yet  already 
had  Alan  forgotten — forgotten  her,  and  Ynys, 
and  the  storm,  and  the  after  calm.  Of  one 
thing  he  thought  only,  and  that  was  of  what 
Daniel  Dare  had  once  said  to  him  laughingly: 
"  If  the  old  fables  of  astrology  were  true,  your 
horoscope  would  foretell  impossible  things." 

In  absolute  silence  they  moved  up  the  long 
flight  of  stone  stairs  that  led  to  the  chateau; 
in  absolute  silence,  they  entered  by  the  door 
which  old  Matieu  had  left  ajar;  in  silence,  they 
passed  that  unconscious  sleeper;  in  silence, 
they  crossed  the  landing  where  the  corridors 
diverged. 


98  Green  Fire 

Both  stopped,  simultaneously.  Alan 
seemed  about  to  speak,  but  his  lips  closed 
again  without  utterance. 

Abruptly  he  turned.  Without  a  word  he 
passed  along  the  corridor  to  the  right,  and 
disappeared  in  the  obscurity. 

Annaik  stood  a  while,  motionless,  silent. 
Then  she  put  her  hand  to  her  heart.  On  her 
impassive  face  the  moonlight  revealed  noth- 
ing; only  in  her  eyes  there  was  a  gleam  as  of 
one  glad  unto  death. 

Then  she  too  passed,  noiseless  and  swift  as 
a  phantom.  Outside,  on  the  stone  terrace, 
Ys,  the  blind  peacock,  strode  to  and  fro, 
uttering  his  prolonged,  raucous  screams. 
When,  at  last,  he  was  unanswered  by  the  pea- 
cocks in  the  cypress  alley,  his  clamant  voice 
no  longer  tore  the  silence. 

The  moon  trailed  her  flood  of  light  across 
the  earth.  It  lay  upon  the  waters,  and  was 
still  a  glory  there  when,  through  the  chill 
quietudes  of  dawn,  the  stars  waned  one  by 
one  in  the  soft  graying  that  filtered  through 
the  morning  dusk.  The  new  day  was  come. 


CHAPTER    VI 
VIA    OSCURA 

THE  day  that  followed  this  quiet  dawn 
marked  the  meridian  of  spring.  Thereafter 
the  flush  upon  the  blossoms  would  deepen; 
the  yellow  pass  out  of  the  green;  and  a 
deeper  green  involve  the  shoreless  emerald 
sea  of  verdure  which  everywhere  covered  the 
brown  earth,  and  swelled  and  lapsed  in  end- 
lessly receding  billows  of  forest  and  wood- 
land. Up  to  that  noon-tide  height  Spring 
had  aspired,  ever  since  she  had  shaken  the 
dust  of  snow  from  her  primrose-sandals;  now, 
looking  upon  the  way  she  had  come,  she  took 
the  hand  of  Summer — and  both  went  forth  as 
one,  so  that  none  should  tell  which  was  still 
the  guest  of  the  greenness. 

This  was  the  day  when  Alan  and  Ynys 
walked  among  the  green  alleys  of  the  woods 
of  Kerival,  and  when,  through  the  deep  glad- 


ioo  Green  Fire 

ness  that  was  his  for  all  the  strange,  gnawing 
pain  in  his  mind,  in  his  ears  echoed  the  haunt- 
ing line  of  Rimbaud,  "Then,  in  the  violet 
forest  all  a-bourgeon,  Eucharis  said  to  me: 
'  It  is  Spring.' " 

Through  the  first  hours  of  the  day  Alan 
had  been  unwontedly  silent.  Ynys  had 
laughed  at  him  with  loving  eyes,  but  had  not 
shown  any  shadow  of  resentment.  His  word 
to  the  effect  that  his  journey  had  tired  him, 
and  that  he  had  not  slept  at  all,  was  enough 
to  account  for  his  lack  of  buoyant  joy. 

But,  in  truth,  Ynys  did  not  regret  this, 
since  it  had  brought  a  still  deeper  intensity 
of  love  into  Alan's  eyes.  When  he  looked  at 
her,  there  was  so  much  passion  of  longing,  so 
pathetic  an  appeal,  that  her  heart  smote  her. 
Why  should  she  be  the  one  chosen  to  evoke  a 
love  such  as  this,  she  wondered ;  she,  who  was 
but  Ynys,  while  Alan  was  a  man  whom  all 
women  might  love,  and  had  genius  that  made 
him  as  one  set  apart  from  his  fellows,  and  was 
brow-lit  by  a  starry  fate? 

And  yet,  in  a  sense  she  understood.  They 
were  so  much  at  one,  so  like  in  all  essential 


Via  Oscura  101 

matters,  and  were  in  all  ways  comrades.  It 
would  have  been  impossible  for  each  not  to 
love  the  other.  But,  deeper  than  this,  was 
the  profound  and  intimate  communion  of  the 
spirit.  In  some  beautiful,  strange  way,  she 
knew  she  was  the  flame  to  his  fire.  At  that 
flame  he  lit  the  torch  of  which  Daniel  Dare 
and  others  had  spoken.  She  did  not  see  why 
or  wherein  it  was  so,  but  she  believed,  and 
indeed  at  last  realized  the  exquisite  actuality. 

In  deep  love,  there  is  no  height  nor  depth 
between  two  hearts,  no  height  nor  depth, 
no  length  nor  breadth.  There  is  simply 
love. 

The  birds  of  Angus  Ogue  are  like  the  wild- 
doves  of  the  forest:  when  they  nest  in  the 
heart  they  are  as  one.  And  her  life,  and 
Alan's,  were  not  these  one? 

Nevertheless,  Ynys  was  disappointed  as  the 
day  went  on,  and  her  lover  did  not  seem  able 
to  rouse  himself  from  his  strange  despond- 
ency. 

Doubtless  this  was  due  largely  to  what  was 
pending.  That  afternoon  he  was  to  have  his 
long  anticipated  interview  with  the  Marquise, 


102  Green  Fire 

and  would  perhaps  learn  what  might  affect  his 
whole  life.  On  the  other  hand,  each  believed 
that  nothing  would  be  revealed  which  was  not 
of  the  past  solely. 

Idly,  Ynys  began  to  question  her  com- 
panion about  the  previous  night.  What  had 
he  done,  since  he  had  not  slept;  had  he  read, 
or  dreamed  at  the  window,  or  gone  out,  as 
had  once  been  his  wont  on  summer  nights,  to 
walk  in  the  cypress  alley  or  along  the  grassy 
dunes?  Had  he  heard  a  nightingale  singing 
in  the  moonlight?  Had  he  noticed  the  pro- 
longed screaming  of  the  peacocks — unusually 
prolonged,  now  that  she  thought  of  it,  Ynys 
added. 

"I  wonder,  dear,  if  you  would  love  me 
whatever  happened — whatever  I  was,  or  did?" 

It  was  an  inconsequent  question.  She 
looked  up  at  him,  half  perturbed,  half 
pleased. 

"Yes,  Alan." 

"  But  do  you  mean  what  you  say,  knowing 
that  you  are  not  only  using  a  phrase? " 

"  I  have  no  gift  of  expression,  dearest. 
Words  come  to  me  without  their  bloom  and 


Via  Oscura  103 

their  fragrance,  I  often  think.  But  .  .  . 
Alan,  /  love  you." 

''That  is  sweetest  music  for  me,  Ynys,  my 
fawn.  All  words  from  you  have  both  bloom 
and  fragrance,  though  you  may  not  know  it, 
shy  flower.  But  tell  me  again,  do  you  mean 
what  you  say,  absolutely?  " 

"Absolutely.  In  every  way,  in  all  things,  at 
all  times.  Dear,  how  could  any  thing  come  be- 
tween us?  It  impossible,  of  course,  that  circum- 
stances might  separate  us.  But  nothing  could 
really  come  between  us.  My  heart  is  yours." 

"What  about  Andrik  de  Morvan?" 

"Ah,  you  are  not  in  earnest,  Alan!" 

"Yes;  I  am  more  than  half  in  earnest, 
Ynys,  darling.  Tell  me!" 

"You  cannot  possibly  believe  that  I  care, 
that  I  could  care,  for  Andrik  as  I  care  for 
you,  Alan." 

"Why  not?" 

"Why  not?  Oh,  have  you  so  little  belief, 
then,  in  women — in  me?  Alan,  do  you  not 
know  that  what  is  perhaps  possible  for  a  man, 
though  I  cannot  conceive  it,  is  impossible  for  a 
woman.  That  is  the  poorest  sophistry  which 


104  Green  Fire 

says  a  woman  may  love  two  men  at  the  same 
time.  That  is,  if  by  love  is  meant  what  you 
and  I  mean.  Affection,  the  deepest  affection, 
is  one  thing;  the  love  of  man  and  woman,  as 
we  mean  it,  is  a  thing  apart!" 

"You  love  Andrik?" 

"Yes." 

"  Could  you  wed  your  life  with  his?" 

"I  could  have  done  so  .    .    .  but  for  you." 

"Then,  by  your  true  heart,  is  there  no 
possibility  that  he  can  in  any  way  ever  come 
between  us?" 

"None." 

"Although  he  is  nominally  your  betrothed, 
and  believes  in  you  as  his  future  wife? " 

"That  is  not  my  fault.  I  drifted  into  that 
conditional  union,  as  you  know.  But  after 
to-dg,y  he  and  every  one  shall  know  that  I 
can  wed  no  man  but  you.  But  why  do  you 
ask  me  these  things,  Alan?" 

"I  want  to  know.  I  will  explain  later. 
But  tell  me;  could  you  be  happy  with  Andrik? 
You  say  you  love  him?" 

" I  love  him  as  a  friend,  as  a  comrade." 

"As  an  intimately  dear  comrade?" 


Via  Oscura  105 

ffAlan,  do  not  let  us  misunderstand  each 
other.  There  can  only  be  one  supreme  com- 
rade for  a  woman,  and  that  is  the  man  whom 
she  loves  supremely.  Every  other  affection, 
the  closest,  the  dearest,  is  as  distinct  from 
that  as  day  from  night." 

"If  by  some  malign  chance  you  and  Andrik 
married — say,  in  the  event  of  my  supposed 
death — would  you  still  be  as  absolutely  true 
to  me  as  you  are  now? " 

"What  has  the  accident  of  marriage  to  do 
with  truth  between  a  man  and  a  woman, 
Alan? " 

"It  involves  intimacies  that  would  be  a 
desecration  otherwise.  Oh,  Ynys,  do  you 
not  understand?  " 

"  It  is  a  matter  of  the  inner  life.  Men  so 
rarely  believe  in  the  hidden  loyalty  of  the 
heart.  It  is  possible  for  a  woman  to  fulfil  a 
bond  and  yet  not  be  a  bondswoman.  Outer 
circumstances  have  little  to  do  with  the  inner 
life,  with  the  real  self." 

"In  a  word,  then,  if  you  married  Andrik 
you  would  remain  absolutely  mine,  not  only 
if  I  were  dead,  but  if  perchance  the  rumor 


io6  Green  Fire 

were  untrue  and  I  came  back,  though  too 
late?" 

"Yes." 

"Absolutely?" 

"Absolutely." 

"And  you  profoundly  know,  Ynys,  that  in 
no  conceivable  circumstances  can  Andrik  be 
to  you  what  I  am,  or  any  thing  for  a  moment 
approaching  it?" 

"I  do  know  it." 

"Although  he  were  your  husband?  " 

"Although  he  were  my  husband." 

The  worn  lines  that  were  in  Alan's  face 
were  almost  gone.  Looking  into  his  eyes 
Ynys  saw  that  the  strange  look  of  pain  which 
had  alarmed  her  was  no  longer  there.  The 
dear  eyes  had  brightened;  a  new  hope  seemed 
to  have  arisen  in  them. 

"Do  you  believe  me,  Alan,  dear?"  she 
whispered. 

"If  I  did  not,  it  would  kill  me,  Ynys." 

And  he  spoke  truth.  The  bitter  sophistica- 
tions of  love  play  lightly  with  the  possibilities 
of  death.  Men  who  talk  of  suicide  are  likely  to 
be  long-livers;  lovers  whose  hearts  are  easily 


Via  Oscura  107 

broken  can  generally  recover  and  astonish 
themselves  by  their  heroic  endurance.  The 
human  heart  is  like  a  wave  of  the  sea;  it  can 
be  lashed  into  storm,  it  can  be  calmed,  it  can 
become  stagnant — but  it  is  seldom  absorbed 
from  the  ocean  till  in  natural  course  the  sun 
takes  up  its  spirit  in  vapor.  Yet,  ever  and 
again,  there  is  one  wave  among  a  myriad 
which  a  spiral  wind-eddy  may  suddenly  strike. 
In  a  moment  it  is  whirled  this  way  and  that;  it 
is  involved  in  a  cataclysm  of  waters;  and  then 
cloud  and  sea  meet,  and  what  a  moment  be- 
fore had  been  an  ocean  wave  is  become  an 
idle  skyey  vapor. 

Alan  was  of  the  few  men  of  whom  that 
wave  is  the  symbol.  To  him,  death  could 
come  at  any  time,  if  the  wind-eddy  of  a  cer- 
tain unthinkable  sorrow  struck  him  at  his 
heart. 

In  this  sense,  his  life  was  in  Ynys's  hands 
as  absolutely  as  though  he  were  a  caged  bird. 
He  knew  it,  and  Ynys  knew  it. 

There  are  a  few  men,  a  few  women,  like  this. 
Perhaps  it  is  well  that  these  are  so  rare. 
Among  the  hills  of  the  north,  at  least,  they 


io8  Green  Fire 

may  still  be  found;  in  remote  mountain 
valleys  and  in  lonely  isles,  where  life  and 
death  are  realized  actualities  and  not  the  mere 
adumbrations  of  the  pinions  of  that  lonely 
fugitive,  the  human  mind,  along  the  endless 
precipices  of  Time. 

Alan  knew  well  that  both  he  and  Ynys  were 
not  so  strong  as  each  believed.  Knowing 
this,  he  feared  for  both.  And  yet,  there  was 
but  one  woman  in  the  world  for  him — Ynys; 
as  for  her,  there  was  but  one  man — Alan. 
Without  her,  he  could  do  nothing,  achieve 
nothing.  She  was  his  flame,  his  inspiration, 
his  strength,  his  light.  Without  her,  he  was 
afraid  to  live;  with  her,  death  was  a  beauti- 
ful dream.  To  her,  Alan  was  not  less.  She 
lived  in  him  and  for  him. 

But  we  are  wrought  of  marsh-fire  as  well  as 
of  stellar  light.  Now,  as  of  old,  the  gods  do 
not  make  of  the  fairest  life  a  thornless  rose. 
A  single  thorn  may  innocently  convey  poison; 
so  that  everywhere  men  and  women  go  to  and 
fro  perilously,  and  not  least  those  who  move 
through  the  shadow  and  shine  of  an  imperious 
passion. 


Via  Oscura  109 

For  a  time,  thereafter,  Alan  and  Ynys 
walked  slowly  onward,  hand  in  hand,  each 
brooding  deep  over  the  thoughts  their  words 
had  stirred. 

"Do  you  know  what  Yann  says,  Alan?" 
Ynys  asked  in  a  low  voice,  after  both  had 
stopped  instinctively  to  listen  to  a  thrush 
leisurely  iterating  his  just  learned  love  carol, 
where  he  swung  on  a  greening  spray  of  honey- 
suckle under  a  yellow-green  lime.  "  Do  you 
know  what  Yann  says?  .  .  .  He  says  that  you 
have  a  wave  at  your  feet.  What  does  that 
mean? " 

"When  did  he  tell  you  that,  Ynys,  mo- 
chree?" 

"Ah,  Alan,  dear,  how  sweet  it  is  to  hear 
from  your  lips  the  dear  Gaelic  we  both  love  so 
well!  And  does  that  not  make  you  more  than 
ever  anxious  to  learn  all  that  you  are  to  hear 
this  afternoon?  " 

"Yes  .  .  .  but  that,  that  Ian  Macdonald 
said;  what  else  did  he  say?  " 

"Nothing.  He  would  say  no  more.  I 
asked  him  in  the  Gaelic,  and  he  repeated  only, 
'  I  see  a  wave  at  his  feet.'  " 


no  Green  Fire 

"What  Ian  means  by  that  I  know  well.  It 
means  I  am  going  on  a  far  journey." 

"Oh,  no,  Alan,  no!" 

"  He  has  the  sight  upon  him,  at  times.  Ian 
would  not  say  that  thing,  did  he  not  mean  it. 
Tell  me,  my  fawn,  has  he  ever  said  any  thing 
of  this  kind  about  you?" 

"Yes.  Less  than  a  month  ago.  I  was  with 
him  one  day  on  the  dunes  near  the  sea.  Once, 
when  he  gave  no  answer  to  what  I  asked,  I 
looked  at  him,  and  saw  his  eyes  fixt.  '  What 
do  you  see,  Yann?'  I  asked. 

"  '  I  see  great  rocks,  strange  caverns.  Sure, 
it  is  well  I  am  knowing  what  they  are.  They 
are  the  Sea-caves  of  Rona.' 

"There  were  no  rocks  visible  from  where 
we  stood,  so  I  knew  that  Ian  was  in  one  of  his 
visionary  moods.  I  waited,  and  then  spoke 
again,  whisperingly: 

"  'Tell  me,  Ian  Maclain,  what  do  you  see? ' 

"  '  I  see  two  whom  I  do  not  know.  And 
they  are  in  a  strange  place,  they  are.  And  on 
the  man  I  see  a  shadow,  and  on  the  woman  I 
see  a  light.  But  what  that  shadow  is,  I  do  not 
know;  nor  do  I  know  what  that  light  is.  But 


Via  Oscura  in 

I  am  for  thinking  that  it  is  of  the  Virgin  Mary, 
for  I  see  the  dream  that  is  in  the  woman's 
heart,  and  it  is  a  fair  wonderful  dream  that.' 

"That  is  all  Yann  said,  Alan.  As  I  was 
about  to  speak,  his  face  changed. 

"  'What  is  it,  Ian?'  I  asked. 

"At  first  he  would  answer  nothing.  Then 
he  said:  'It  is  a  dream.  It  means  nothing. 
It  was  only  because  I  was  thinking  of  you  and 
Alan  MacAlasdair." 

"Oh,  Ynys!" — Alan  interrupted  with  an 
eager  cry — "  that  is  a  thing  I  have  long  striven 
to  know;  that  which  lies  in  the  words  'Alan 
MacAlasdair.'  My  father,  then,  was  named 
Alasdair !  And  was  it  Rona,  you  said,  was 
the  place  of  the  Sea-caves?  Rona  .  .  .  that 
must  be  an  island.  The  only  Rona  I  know 
of  is  that  near  Skye.  It  may  be  the  same. 
Now,  indeed,  I  have  a  clew,  lest  I  should 
learn  nothing  to-day.  Did  Ian  say  nothing 
more?  " 

"  Nothing.  I  asked  him  if  the  man  and 
woman  he  saw  were  you  and  I,  but  he  would 
not  speak.  I  am  certain  he  was  about  to  say 
yes,  but  refrained." 


ii2  Green  Fire 

For  a  while  they  walked  on  in  silence,  each 
revolving  many  speculations  aroused  by  the 
clew  given  by  the  words  of  "  Yann  the  Dumb." 
Suddenly  Ynys  tightened  her  clasp  of  Alan's 
hand. 

"What  is  it,  dear?" 

"Alan,  some  time  ago  you  asked  me 
abruptly  what  I  knew  about  the  forester,  Judik 
Kerbastiou.  Well,  I  see  him  in  that  beech- 
covert  yonder,  looking  at  us." 

Alan  started.  Ynys  noticed  that  for  a 
moment  he  grew  pale  as  foam.  His  lips 
parted,  as  though  he  were  about  to  call  to  the 
woodlander:  when  Judik  advanced,  making  at 
the  same  time  a  sign  of  silence. 

The  man  had  a  wild  look  about  him. 
Clearly,  he  had  not  slept  since  he  and  Alan  had 
parted  at  midnight.  His  dusky  eyes  had  a  red 
light  in  them.  His  rough  clothes  were  still 
damp;  his  face,  too,  was  strangely  white  and 
dank. 

Alan  presumed  that  he  came  to  say  something 
concerning  Annaik.  He  did  not  know  what 
to  do  to  prevent  this,  but  while  he  was  ponder- 
ing, Judik  spoke  in  a  hoarse,  tired  voice: 


Via  Oscura  113 

"  Let  the  Lady  Ynys  go  back  to  the  chateau 
at  once.  She  is  needed  there." 

"Why,  what  is  wrong,  Judik  Kerbastiou?  " 

"Let  her  go  back,  I  say.  No  time  for 
words  now.  Be  quick.  I  am  not  deceiving 
you.  Listen  ..."  and  with  that  he  leaned 
toward  Alan,  and  whispered  in  his  ear. 

Alan  looked  at  him  with  startled  amaze. 
Then,  turning  toward  Ynys,  he  asked  her  to 
go  back  at  once  to  the  chateau. 


CHAPTER  VII 

"DEIREADH  GACH  COGAIDH,  SITH  "    (THE 
END  OF  ALL  WARFARE,  PEACE) 

ALAN  did  not  wait  till  Ynys  was  out  of 
sight,  before  he  demanded  the  reason  of 
Judik's  strange  appearance  and  stranger  sum- 
mons. 

"Why  are  you  here  again,  Judik  Kerbas- 
tiou?  What  is  the  meaning  of  this  haunting 
of  the  forbidden  home  domain?  And  what 
did  you  mean  by  urging  Mile.  Ynys  to  go 
back  at  once  to  the  chateau? " 

"  Time  enough  later  for  your  other  ques- 
tions, young  sir.  Meanwhile  come  along  with 
me,  and  as  quick  as  you  can." 

Without  another  word  the  woodlander 
turned  and  moved  rapidly  along  a  narrow  path 
through  the  brushwood. 

Alan  saw  it  would  be  useless  to  ask  further 
questions  at  the  moment;  moreover,  he  was 


"Deireadh  Gach  Cogaidh,  Sith"      115 

now  vaguely  alarmed.  What  could  all  this 
mystery  mean?  Could  an  accident  have 
happened  to  the  Marquis  Tristran?  It  was 
hardly  likely,  for  he  seldom  ventured  into  the 
forest,  unless  when  the  weather  had  dried  all 
the  ways:  for  he  had  to  be  wheeled  in  his 
chair,  and,  as  Alan  knew,  disliked  to  leave  the 
gardens  or  the  well-kept  yew  and  cypress 
alleys  near  the  chateau. 

In  a  brief  while,  however,  he  heard  voices. 
Judik  turned,  and  waved  to  him  to  be  wary. 
The  forester  bent  forward,  stared  intently, 
and  then  beckoned  to  Alan  to  creep  up  along- 
side. 

"  Who  is  it?    What  is  it,  Judik? " 

"Look!" 

Alan  disparted  a  bough  of  underwood  which 
made  an  effectual  screen.  In  the  glade  be- 
yond were  four  figures. 

One  of  these  he  recognized  at  once.  It 
was  the  Marquis  de  Kerival.  He  was,  as 
usual,  seated  in  his  wheeled  chair.  Behind 
him,  some  paces  to  the  right,  was  Raif  Ker- 
morvan,  the  steward  of  Kerival.  The  other 
two  men  Alan  had  not  seen  before. 


n6  Green  Fire 

One  of  these  strangers  was  a  tall,  handsome 
man,  of  about  sixty.  His  close-cropped  white 
hair,  his  dress,  his  whole  mien,  betrayed  the 
military  man.  Evidently  a  colonel,  Alan 
thought,  or  perhaps  a  general;  at  any  rate  an 
officer  of  high  rank,  and  one  to  whom  com- 
mand and  self-possession  were  alike  habitual. 
Behind  this  gentleman,  one  of  the  most  dis- 
tinguished and  even  noble-looking  men  he 
had  ever  seen,  and  again  some  paces  to  the 
right,  was  a  man,  evidently  a  groom,  and  to 
all  appearances  an  orderly  in  mufti. 

The  first  glance  revealed  that  a  duel  was 
imminent.  The  duellists,  of  course,  were  the 
military  stranger  and  the  Marquis  de  Kerival. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  Alan  whispered  to 
Kerbastion.  "  Do  you  know?  " 

"I  do  not  know  his  name.  He  is  a 
soldier — a  general.  He  came  to  Kerival  to- 
day; an  hour  or  more  ago.  I  guided  him 
through  the  wood,  for  he  and  his  man  had 
ridden  into  one  of  the  winding  alleys  and  had 
lost  their  way.  I  heard  him  ask  for  the  Mar- 
quis de  Kerival.  I  waited  about  in  the 
shrubbery  of  the  rose  garden  to  see  if  .  .-,  ; 


"Deireadh  Gach  Cogaidh,  Sith"      117 

if  ...  some  one  for  whom  I  waited  .  .  . 
would  come  out.  After  a  time,  half  an  hour 
or  less,  this  gentleman  came  forth,  ushered 
by  Raif  Kermorvan,  the  steward.  His  man 
brought  around  the  two  horses  again.  They 
mounted,  and  rode  slowly  away.  I  joined 
them,  and  offered  to  show  them  a  shorter 
route  than  that  which  they  were  taking.  The 
General  said  they  wished  to  find  a  glade 
known  as  Merlin's  Rest.  Then  I  knew  what  he 
came  for,  I  knew  what  was  going  to  happen." 

"What,  Judik?" 

"Hush!  not  so  loud.  They  will  hear  us! 
I  knew  it  was  for  a  duel.  It  was  here  that 
Andrik  de  Morvan,  the  uncle  of  him  whom 
you  know,  was  killed  by  a  man — I  forget  his 
name." 

"Why  did  the  man  kill  Andrik  de  Mor- 
van?" 

"Oh,  who  knows?  Why  does  one  kill  any 
body?  Because  he  was  tired  of  enduring  the 
Sieur  Andrik  longer;  he  bored  him  beyond 
words  to  tell,  I  have  heard.  Then,  too,  the 
Count,  for  he  was  a  count,  loved  Andrik's 
wife." 


n8  Green   Fire 

Alan  glanced  at  Judik.  For  all  his  rough 
wildness,  he  spoke  on  occasion  like  a  man  of 
breeding.  Moreover,  at  no  time  was  he  sub- 
servient in  his  manner.  Possibly,  Alan  thought, 
it  was  true  what  he  had  heard :  that  Judik  Ker- 
bastiou  was  by  moral  right  Judik  de  Kerival. 

While  the  onlookers  were  whispering,  the 
four  men  in  the  glade  had  all  slightly  shifted 
their  position.  The  Marquis,  it  was  clear, 
had  insisted  upon  this.  The  light  had  been 
in  his  eyes.  Now  the  antagonists  and  their 
seconds  were  arranged  aright.  Kermorvan, 
the  steward,  was  speaking  slowly:  directions 
as  to  the  moment  when  to  fire. 

Alan  knew  it  would  be  worse  than  useless 
to  interfere.  He  could  but  hope  that  this 
was  no  more  than  an  affair  of  honor  of  a 
kind  not  meant  to  have  a  fatal  issue;  a  politi- 
cal quarrel,  perhaps;  a  matter  of  insignificant 
social  offence. 

Before  Raif  Kermorvan — a  short,  black- 
haired,  bull-necked  man,  with  a  pale  face  and 
protruding  light  blue  eyes — had  finished  what 
he  had  to  say,  Alan  noticed  what  had  hitherto 
escaped  him:  that  immediately  beyond  the 


"Deireadh  Gach  Cogaidh,  Sith"      119 

glade,  and  under  a  huge  sycamore,  already  in 
full  leaf,  stood  the  Kerival  carriage.  Alain, 
the  coachman,  sat  on  the  box,  and  held  the 
two  black  horses  in  rein.  Standing  by  the 
side  of  the  carriage  was  Georges  de  Rohan, 
the  doctor  of  Kerloek,  and  a  personal  friend 
of  the  Marquis  Tristran. 

Suddenly  Kermorvan  raised  his  voice. 

"M.  le  General,  are  you  ready?" 

"  I  am  ready,"  answered  a  low,  clear  voice. 

"  M.  le  Marquis,  are  you  ready? " 

Tristran  de  Kerival  did  not  answer,  but 
assented  by  a  slight  nod. 

"Then  raise  your  weapons,  and  fire  the 
moment  I  say  '  thrice.'  " 

Both  men  raised  their  pistols. 

"You  have  the  advantage  of  me,  sir,"  said 
the  Marquis  coldly,  in  a  voice  as  audible  to 
Alan  and  Judik  as  to  the  others.  "I  present 
a  good  aim  to  you  here.  Nevertheless,  I  warn 
you  once  more  that  you  will  not  escape  me 
.  .  .  this  time." 

The  General  smiled;  scornfully,  Alan 
thought.  Again,  when  suddenly  he  lowered 
his  pistol  and  spoke,  Alan  fancied  he  detected 


120  Green  Fire 

if  not  a  foreign  accent,  at  least  a  foreign 
intonation. 

"  Once  more,  Tristran  de  Kerival,  I  tell 
you  that  this  duel  is  a  crime;  a  crime  against 
me,  a  crime  against  Mme.  la  Marquise,  a 
crime  against  your  daughters,  and  a  crime 
against  ..." 

"  That  will  do,  General.  I  am  ready.  Are 
you? " 

Without  further  word  the  stranger  slowly 
drew  himself  together.  He  raised  his  arm, 
while  his  opponent  did  the  same. 

"Once!  Twice!  Thrice!"  There  was  a 
crack  like  that  of  a  cattle-whip.  Simulta- 
neously some  splinters  of  wood  were  blown 
from  the  left  side  of  the  wheeled  chair. 

The  Marquis  Tristran  smiled.  He  had 
reserved  his  fire.  He  could  aim  now  with 
fatal  effect. 

"It  is  murder!"  muttered  Alan,  horrified; 
but  at  that  moment  the  Marquis  spoke.  Alan 
leaned  forward,  intent  to  hear. 

"At  last!"  That  was  all.  But  in  the 
words  was  a  concentrated  longing  for  re- 
venge, the  utterance  of  a  vivid  hate. 


"Deireadh  Gach  Cogaidh,  Sith"      121 

Tristran  de  Kerival  slowly  and  with  method- 
ical malignity  took  aim.  There  was  a  flash, 
the  same  whip-like  crack. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  though  the  ball 
had  missed  its  mark.  Then,  suddenly,  there 
was  a  bubbling  of  red  froth  at  the  mouth  of 
the  stranger.  Still,  he  stood  erect. 

Alan  looked  at  the  Marquis  de  Kerival.  He 
was  leaning  back,  deathly  white,  but  with  the 
bitter,  suppressed  smile  which  every  one  at  the 
chateau  knew  and  hated. 

All  at  once  the  General  swayed,  lunged  for- 
ward, and  fell  prone. 

Dr.  de  Rohan  ran  out  from  the  sycamore, 
and  knelt  beside  him.  After  a  few  seconds  he 
looked  up. 

He  did  not  speak,  but  every  one  knew  what 
his  eyes  said.  To  make  it  unmistakable,  he 
drew  out  his  handkerchief  and  put  it  over  the 
face  of  the  dead  man. 

Alan  was  about  to  advance  when  Judik 
Kerbastiou  plucked  him  by  the  sleeve. 

"Hst!  M'sieurAlan!  There  is  Mamzelle 
Ynys  returning!  She  will  be  here  in  another 
minute.  She  must  not  see  what  is  there." 


122  Green  Fire 

"You  are  right,  Judik.     I  thank  you." 

With  that  he  turned  and  moved  swiftly 
down  the  leaf-hid  path  which  would  enable 
him  to  intercept  Ynys. 

"What  is  it,  Alan?"  she  asked,  with  won- 
dering eyes,  the  moment  he  was  at  her  side. 
"  What  is  it?  Why  are  you  so  pale?" 

"  It  is  because  of  a  duel  that  has  been 
fought  here.  You  must  go  back  at  once, 
dear.  There  are  reasons  why  you  .  .  ." 

"Is  my  father  one  of  the  combatants?  I 
know  he  is  out  of  the  chateau.  Tell  me 
quick.!  Is  he  wounded?  Is  he  dead?  " 

"No,  no,  darling  heart!  He  is  unhurt. 
But  I  can  tell  you  nothing  more  just  now. 
Later  .  .  .  later.  But  why  did  you  return 
here? " 

"I  came  with  a  message  from  my  mother. 
She  is  in  sore  trouble,  I  fear.  I  found  her,  on 
her  couch  in  the  Blue  Salon,  with  tears  stream- 
ing down  her  face  and  sobs  choking  her." 

"  And  she  wants  me   .    .    .    now?" 

"Yes.  She  told  me  to  look  for  you,  and 
bring  you  to  her  at  once." 

"Then  go  straightway  back,  dear,  and  tell 


"Deireadh  Gach  Cogaidh,  Sith."       123 

her  that  I  shall  be  with  her  immediately. 
Yes,  go — go — at  once." 

But  by  the  time  Ynys  had  moved  into  the 
alley  which  led  her  to  the  chateau,  and  Alan 
had  returned  to  the  spot  where  he  had  left 
Judik,  rapid  changes  had  occurred. 

The  wheeled  chair  had  gone.  Alan  could 
see  it  nearing  the  South  Yews;  with  the  Mar- 
quis Tristran  in  it,  leaning  backward  and  with 
head  erect.  At  its  side  walked  Raif  Ker- 
morvan.  He  seemed  to  be  whispering  to  the 
Seigneur.  The  carriage  had  disappeared ;  with 
it  Georges  de  Rohan,  the  soldier  orderly,  and, 
presumably,  the  dead  man. 

Alan  stood  hesitant,  uncertain  whether  to 
go  first  to  the  Marquise,  or  to  follow  the  man 
whom  he  regarded  now  with  an  aversion  in- 
finitely deeper  than  he  had  ever  done  hitherto; 
with  whom,  he  felt,  he  never  wished  to  speak 
again,  for  he  was  a  murderer,  if  ever  man  was, 
and,  from  Alan's  standpoint,  a  coward  as  well. 
Tristran  de  Kerival  was  the  deadliest  shot  in 
all  the  country-side,  and  he  must  have  known 
that,  when  he  challenged  his  victim,  he  gave 
him  his  death  sentence. 


124  Green  Fire 

It  did  not  occur  to  Alan  that  possibly  the 
survivor  was  the  man  challenged.  Instinct- 
ively he  knew  that  this  was  not  so. 

Judik  suddenly  touched  his  arm. 

"  Here,"  he  said;  "  this  is  the  name  of  the 
dead  man.  I  got  the  servant  to  write  it  down 
for  me." 

Alan  took  the  slip  of  paper.  On  it  was: 
"M.  le  Gdntral  Carmichael" 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  UNFOLDING  OF  THE  SCROLL 

WHEN  Alan  reached  the  chateau  he  was  at 
once  accosted  by  old  Matieu. 

"  Mme.  la  Marquise  wishes  to  see  you  in 
her  private  room,  M'sieu  Alan,  and  without  a 
moment's  delay." 

In  a  few  seconds  he  was  on  the  upper  land- 
ing. At  the  door  of  the  room  known  as  the 
Blue  Salon  he  met  Yann  the  Dumb. 

"  What  is  it,  Ian?  Is  there  any  thing 
wrong? " 

In  his  haste  he  spoke  in  French.  The  old 
islander  looked  at  him,  but  did  not  answer. 

Alan  repeated  his  question  in  Gaelic. 

"  Yes,  Alan  MacAlasdair,  I  fear  there  is 
gloom  and  darkness  upon  us  all." 

"Why?" 

"By  this  an'  by  that.  But  I  have  seen  the 
death-cloth  about  Lois  nic  Alasdair  bron- 


126  Green  Fire 

nach  for  weeks  past.  I  saw  it  about  her  feet, 
and  then  about  her  knees,  and  then  about  her 
breast.  Last  night,  when  I  looked  at  her,  I 
saw  it  at  her  neck.  And  to-day,  the  shadow- 
shroud  is  risen  to  her  eyes." 

"But  your  second-sight  is  not  always  true, 
you  know,  Ian.  Why,  you  told  me  when  I 
was  here  last  that  I  would  soon  be  see- 
ing my  long  dead  father  again,  and,  more 
than  that,  that  I  should  see  him,  but  he  never 
see  me.  But  of  this  and  your  other  dark 
sayings,  no  more  now.  Can  I  go  in  at  once 
and  see  my  aunt?  " 

"  I  will  be  asking  that,  Alan-mo-caraid. 
But  what  you  say  is  not  true.  I  have 
never  yet  'seen'  any  thing  that  has  not  come 
to  pass;  though  I  have  had  the  sight  but 
seldom,  to  Himself  be  the  praise."  With  that 
Ian  entered,  exchanged  a  word  or  two,  and 
ushered  Alan  into  the  room. 

On  a  couch  beside  a  great  fireplace,  across 
the  iron  brazier  of  which  were  flaming  pine- 
logs,  an  elderly  woman  lay  almost  supine. 
That  she  had  been  a  woman  of  great  beauty 
was  unmistakable,  for  all  her  gray  hair  and 


The  Unfolding  of  the  Scroll         127 

the  ravages  that  time  and  suffering  had 
wrought  upon  her  face.  Even  now  her  face 
was  beautiful;  mainly  from  the  expression  of 
the  passionate  dusky  eyes  which  were  so  like 
those  of  Annaik.  Her  long,  inert  body 
was  covered  with  a  fantastic  Italian  silk-cloth 
whose  gay  pattern  emphasized  her  own  help- 
less condition.  Alan  had  not  seen  her  for 
some  months,  and  he  was  shocked  at  the 
change.  Below  the  eyes,  as  flamelike  as  ever, 
were  purplish  shadows,  and  everywhere, 
through  the  habitual  ivory  of  the  delicate 
features,  a  gray  ashiness  had  diffused.  When 
she  held  out  her  hand  to  him,  he  saw  it  as 
transparent  as  a  fan,  and  perceived  within 
it  the  red  gleam  of  the  fire. 

"Ah,  Alan,  it  is  you  at  last!  How  glad  I 
am  to  see  you!"  The  voice  was  one  of  sin- 
gular sweetness,  in  tone  and  accent  much  like 
that  of  Ynys. 

"  Dear  Aunt  Lois,  not  more  glad  than  I  am 
to  see  you  " — and,  as  he  spoke,  Alan  kneeled 
at  the  couch  and  kissed  the  frail  hand  that 
had  been  held  out  to  him. 

"I  would  have  so  eagerly  seen  you  at  once 


128  Green  Fire 

on  my  arrival,"  he  resumed,  "  but  I  was  given 
your  message — that  you  had  one  of  your  sea- 
sons of  suffering,  and  could  not  see  me.  You 
have  been  in  pain,  Aunt  Lois? " 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  am  dying." 

"  Dying!  Oh,  no,  no,  no!  You  don't 
mean  that.  And  besides " 

"Why  should  I  not  mean  it?  Why  should 
I  fear  it,  Alan?  Has  life  meant  so  much 
to  me  of  late  years  that  I  should  wish  to 
prolong  it? " 

"But  you  have  endured  so  long!" 

"A  bitter  reason  truly!  .  .  .  and  one 
too  apt  to  a  woman  !  Well,  enough  of  this. 
Alan,  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  yourself. 
But  first  tell  me  one  thing.  Do  you  love  any 
woman? " 

"  Yes,  with  all  my  heart,  with  all  my  life,  I 
love  a  woman." 

"  Have  you  told  her  so?  Has  she  be- 
trothed herself  to  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Is  it  Annaik?" 

"Annaik   .    .    .    Annaik?" 

"Why  are  you  so  surprised,  Alan?    Annaik 


The  Unfolding  of  the  Scroll         129 

is  beautiful;  she  has  long  loved  you,  I  am 
certain;  and  you,  too,  if  I  mistake  not,  care 
for  her? " 

"Of  course,  I  do;  of  course  I  care  for  her, 
Aunt  Lois.  I  love  her.  But  I  do  not  love 
her  as  you  mean." 

The  Marquise  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"I  do  not  quite  understand,"  she  said 
gravely.  "  I  must  speak  to  you  about 
Annaik,  later.  But  now,  will  you  tell  me  who 
the  woman  is?" 

"Yes.     It  is  Ynys." 

"Ynys/  But,  Alan,  do  you  not  know  that 
she  is  betrothed  to  Andrik  de  Morvan? " 

"I  know." 

"  And  that  such  a  betrothal  is,  in  Brittany, 
almost  as  binding  as  a  marriage?" 

"  I  have  heard  that  said." 

"And  that  the  Marquis  de  Kerival  wishes 
that  union  to  take  place?  " 

"  The  Marquis  Tristran's  opinion,  on  any 
matter,  does  not  in  any  way  concern  me." 

"That  may  be,  Alan;  but  it  concerns  Ynys. 
Do  you  know  that  I  also  wish  her  to  marry 
Andrik;  that  his  parents  wish  it;  and  that 
9 


130  Green  Fire 

every  one  regards  the  union  as  all  but  an 
accomplished  fact?" 

"Yes,  dear  Aunt  Lois,  I  have  known  or 
presumed  all  you  tell  me.  But  nothing  of  it 
can  alter  what  is  a  vital  part  of  my  existence." 

"Do  you  know  that  Ynys  herself  gave  her 
pledge  to  Andrik  de  Morvan?" 

"It  was  a  conditional  pledge.  But,  in  any 
case,  she  will  formally  renounce  it." 

For  a  time  there  was  silence. 

Alan  had  risen,  and  now  stood  by  the  side 
of  the  couch,  with  folded  arms.  The  Mar- 
quise Lois  looked  up  at  him,  with  her  stead- 
fast, shadowy  eyes.  When  she  spoke  again 
she  averted  them,  and  her  voice  was  so  low  as 
almost  to  be  a  whisper. 

"Finally,  Alan,  let  me  ask  you  one  ques- 
tion. It  is  not  about  you  and  Ynys.  I  infer 
that  both  of  you  are  at  one  in  your  determina- 
tion to  take  every  thing  into  your  own  hands. 
Presumably  you  can  maintain  her  and  your- 
self. Tristran — the  Marquis  de  Kerival — will 
not  contribute  a  franc  toward  her  support. 
If  he  knew,  he  would  turn  her  out  of  doors 
this  very  day." 


The  Unfolding  of  the  Scroll         131 

"Well,  Aunt  Lois,  I  wait  for  your  final 
question?" 

"  It  is  this.      What  about  Annaik  ?  " 

Startled  by  her  tone  and  sudden  lifted 
glance,  Alan  stared  in  silence;  then  recollect- 
ing himself,  he  repeated  dully: 

"'What  about  Annaik?'.  .  .  Annaik,  Aunt 
Lois,  why  do  you  ask  me  about  Annaik?" 

"She  loves  you." 

"As  a  brother;  as  the  betrothed  of  Ynys; 
as  a  dear  comrade  and  friend." 

"Do  not  be  a  hypocrite,  Alan.  You  know 
that  she  loves  you.  What  of  your  feeling 
toward  her?  " 

"I  love  her  ...  as  a  brother  loves  a  sis- 
ter ...  as  any  old  playmate  and  friend  .  .  . 
as  ...  as  the  sister  of  Ynys." 

A  faint,  scornful  smile  came  upon  the  white 
lips  of  the  Marquise. 

"Will  you  be  good  enough,  then,  to 
explain  about  last  night? " 

"About  last  night?" 

"Come,  be  done  with  evasion.  Yes,  about 
last  night.  Alan,  I  know  that  you  and 
Annaik  were  out  together  in  the  cypress 


i32  Green  Fire 

avenue,  and  again,  on  the  dunes,  after  mid- 
night; that  you  were  seen  walking  hand  in 
hand;  and  that,  stealthily,  you  entered  the 
house  together." 

"Well?" 

"Well!  The  inference  is  obvious.  But 
I  will  let  you  see  that  I  know  more.  Annaik 
went  out  of  the  house  late.  Old  Matieu  let 
her  out.  Shortly  after  that  you  went  out  of 
the  chateau.  Later,  you  and  she  came  upon 
Judik  Kerbastiou  prowling  about  in  the 
woods.  It  was  more  than  an  hour  after  he 
left  you  that  you  returned  to  the  chateau. 
Where  were  you  during  that  hour  or  more?" 

Alan  flushed.  He  unfolded  his  arms; 
hesitated;  then  refolded  them. 

"How  do  you  know  this?"  he  asked 
simply. 

"  I  know  it,  because  .    .   ." 

But  before  she  finished  what  she  was  about 
to  say,  the  door  opened  and  Yann  entered. 

"What  is  it,  Ian?" 

"  I  would  be  speaking  to  you  alone  for 
a  minute,  Bantighearna." 

"Alan,  go   to   the  alcove   yonder,    please. 


The  Unfolding  of  the  Scroll         133 

I  must  hear  in  private  what  Yann  has  to  say 
to  me." 

As  soon  as  the  young  man  was  out  of  hear- 
ing, Yann  stooped  and  spoke  in  low  tones. 
The  Marquise  Lois  grew  whiter  and  whiter, 
till  not  a  vestige  of  color  remained  in  her 
face,  and  the  only  sign  of  life  was  in  the  eyes. 
Suddenly  she  made  an  exclamation. 

Alan  turned  and  looked  at  her.  He  caught 
her  agonized  whisper:  "  Oh,  my  God!" 

"What  is  it — oh,  what  is  it,  dear  Aunt 
Lois? "  he  cried,  as  he  advanced  to  her  side. 

He  expected  to  be  waved  back,  but  to 
his  surprise  the  Marquise  made  no  sign  to 
him  to  withdraw.  Instead,  she  whispered 
some  instructions  to  Yann  and  then  bade 
him  go. 

When  they  were  alone  once  more,  she  took 
a  small  silver  flagon  from  beneath  her  cover- 
let and  poured  a  few  drops  upon  some 
sugar. 

Having  taken  this,  she  seemed  to  breathe 
more  easily.  It  was  evident,  at  the  same 
time,  that  she  had  received  some  terrible 
shock. 


134  Green  Fire 

"Alan,  come  closer.  I  cannot  speak  loud. 
I  have  no  time  to  say  more  to  you  about 
Annaik.  I  must  leave  that  to  you  and  to 
her.  But  lest  I  die,  let  me  say  at  once  that 
I  forbid  you  to  marry  Ynys,  and  that  I  en- 
join you  to  marry  Annaik,  and  that  without 
delay." 

A  spasm  of  pain  crossed  the  speaker's  face. 
She  stopped,  and  gasped  for  breath.  When 
at  last  she  resumed,  it  was  clear  she  con- 
sidered as  settled  the  matter  on  which  she 
had  spoken. 

"Alan,  I  am  so  unwell  that  I  must  be  very 
brief.  And  now  listen.  You  are  twenty-five 
to-day.  Such  small  fortune  as  is  yours  comes 
now  into  your  possession.  It  has  been  ad- 
ministered for  you  by  a  firm  of  lawyers  in 
Edinburgh.  See,  here  is  the  address.  Can 
you  read  it?  Yes?  .  .  .  Well,  keep  the  slip. 
This  fortune  is  not  much.  To  many,  possibly 
to  you,  it  may  not  seem  enough  to  provide 
more  than  the  bare  necessities  of  life,  not 
enough  for  its  needs.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
your  own,  and  you  will  be  glad.  It  will,  at 
least,  suffice  to  keep  you  free  from  need  if 


The  Unfolding  of  the  Scroll          135 

ever  you  fulfil  your  great  wish  to  go  back  to 
the  land  of  your  fathers,  to  your  own  place." 

"  That  is  still  my  wish  and  my  hope." 

"  So  be  it!  You  will  have  also  an  old  sea 
castle,  not  much  more  than  a  keep,  on  a 
remote  island.  It  will  at  any  rate  be  your 
own.  It  is  on  an  island  where  few  people 
are;  a  wild  and  precipitous  isle  far  out  in 
the  Atlantic  at  the  extreme  of  the  Southern 
Hebrides." 

"Is  it  called  Rona?"  Alan  interrupted 
eagerly. 

Without  noticing,  or  heeding,  his  eagerness, 
she  assented. 

"Yes,  it  is  called  Rona.  Near  it  are  the 
isles  of  Mingulay  and  Borosay.  These  three 
islands  were  once  populous,  and  it  was  there 
that  for  hundreds  of  years  your  father's  clan, 
of  which  he  was  hereditary  chief,  lived  and 
prospered.  After  the  evil  days,  the  days 
when  the  young  King  was  hunted  in  the  west 
as  though  a  royal  head  were  the  world's 
desire,  and  when  our  brave  kinswoman, 
Flora  Macdonald,  proved  that  women  as  well 
as  men  could  dare  all  for  a  good  cause — after 


136  Green  Fire 

those  evil  days  the  people  melted  away. 
Soon  the  last  remaining  handful  were  upon 
Borosay;  and  there,  too,  till  the  great  fire 
that  swept  the  island  a  score  of  years  ago, 
stood  the  castle  of  my  ancestors,  the  Mac- 
donalds  of  Borosay. 

"My  father  was  a  man  well  known  in  his 
day.  The  name  of  Sir  Kenneth  Macdonald 
was  as  familiar  in  London  as  in  Edinburgh; 
and  in  Paris  he  was  known  to  all  the  military 
and  diplomatic  world,  for  in  his  youth  he  had 
served  in  the  French  army  with  distinction, 
and  held  the  honorary  rank  of  general. 

"  Not  long  before  my  mother's  death  he  came 
back  to  our  lonely  home  in  Borosay,  bringing 
with  him  a  kinsman  of  another  surname,  who 
owned  the  old  castle  of  Rona  on  the  Isle  of 
the  Sea-caves,  as  Rona  is  often  called  by  the 
people  of  the  Hebrides.  Also  there  came  with 
him  a  young  French  officer  of  high  rank.  After 
a  time  I  was  asked  to  marry  this  man.  I  did 
not  love  him,  did  not  even  care  for  him,  and 
I  refused.  In  truth  .  .  .  already,  though  un- 
knowingly, I  loved  your  father — he  that  was 
our  kinsman  and  owned  Rona  and  its  old  castle. 


The  Unfolding  of  the  Scroll         137 

But  Alasdair  did  not  speak;  and,  because  of 
that,  we  each  came  to  sorrow. 

"  My  father  told  me  he  was  ruined.  If  I  did 
not  marry  Tristran  de  Kerival,  he  would  lose 
all.  Moreover,  my  dying  mother  begged  me 
to  save  the  man  she  had  loved  so  well  and 
truly,  though  he  had  left  her  so  much  alone. 

"Well,  to  be  brief,  I  agreed.  My  kinsman 
Alasdair  was  away  at  the  time.  He  returned 
on  the  eve  of  the  very  day  on  which  I  was 
suddenly  married  by  Father  Somerled  Mac- 
donald.  We  were  to  remain  a  few  weeks  in 
Borosay  because  of  my  mother's  health. 

"When  Alasdair  learned  what  had  happened 
he  was  furious.  I  believe  he  even  drew  a  rid- 
ing whip  across  the  face  of  Tristran  de  Keri- 
val. Fierce  words  passed  between  them,  and 
a  cruel  taunt  that  rankled.  Nor  would  Alas- 
dair have  any  word  with  me  at  all.  He  sent 
me  a  bitter  message,  but  the  bitterest  word 
he  could  send  was  that  which  came  to  me: 
that  he  and  my  sister  Silis  had  gone  away 
together. 

"From  that  day  I  never  saw  Silis  again,  till 
the  time  of  her  death.  Soon  afterward  our 


138  Green  Fire 

mother  died,  and  while  the  island-funeral  was 
being  arranged  our  father  had  a  stroke,  and 
himself  died,  in  time  to  be  buried  along  with 
his  wife.  It  was  only  then  that  I  realized 
how  more  than  true  had  been  his  statements 
as  to  his  ruin.  He  died  penniless.  I  was 
reminded  of  this  unpleasant  fact  at  the  time, 
by  the  Marquis  de  Kerival;  and  I  have  had 
ample  opportunity  since  for  bearing  it  in 
vivid  remembrance. 

"As  soon  as  possible  we  settled  all  that 
could  be  settled,  and  left  for  Brittany.  I 
have  sometimes  thought  my  husband's  love 
was  killed  when  he  discovered  that  Alasdair 
had  loved  me.  He  forbade  me  even  to  men- 
tion his  name,  unless  he  introduced  it;  and 
he  was  wont  to  swear  that  a  day  would 
come  when  be  would  repay  in  full  what  he 
believed  to  be  the  damning  insult  he  had 
received. 

"We  took  with  us  only  one  person  from 
Borosay,  an  islander  of  Rona.  He  is,  in  fact, 
a  clansman  both  of  you  and  me.  It  is  of  Ian 
I  speak,  of  course;  him  that  soon  came  to  be 
called  here  Yann  the  Dumb.  My  husband  and 


The  Unfolding  of  the  Scroll         139 

I  had  at  least  this  to  unite  us:  that  we  were 
both  Celtic,  and  had  all  our  racial  sympathies 
in  common. 

"I  heard  from  Silis  that  she  was  married 
and  was  happy.  I  am  afraid  this  did  not  add 
to  my  happiness.  She  wrote  to  me,  too,  when 
she  was  about  to  bear  her  child.  Strangely 
enough,  Alasdair,  who,  like  his  father  before 
him,  was  an  officer  in  the  French  army,  was 
then  stationed  not  far  from  Kerival,  though 
my  husband  knew  nothing  of  this  at  first. 
My  own  boy  and  Silis's  were  born  about  the 
same  time.  My  child  died;  that  of  Silis  and 
Alasdair  lived.  You  are  that  child.  No  .  .  . 
wait,  Alan.  .  .  I  will  tell  you  his  name  shortly. 
.  .  .  You,  I  say,  are  that  child.  Soon  after- 
ward, Silis  had  a  dangerous  relapse.  In  her 
delirium  she  said  some  wild  things;  among 
them,  words  to  the  effect  that  the  child  which 
had  died  was  hers,  and  that  the  survivor  was 
mine — that,  somehow  or  other,  they  had  been 
changed.  Then,  too,  she  cried  out  in  her 
waywardness — and,  poor  girl,  she  must  have 
known  then  that  Alasdair  had  loved  me  be- 
fore he  loved  her — that  the  child  who  lived, 


140  Green  Fire 

he  who  had  been  christened  Alan,  was  the 
child  of  Alasdair  and  myself. 

"  All  this  poor  delirium  at  the  gate  of  death 
meant  nothing.  But  in  some  way  it  came  to 
Tristran's  ears,  and  he  believed.  After  Silis's 
death  I  had  brought  you  home,  Alan,  and  had 
announced  that  I  would  adopt  you.  I  prom- 
ised Silis  this,  in  her  last  hour,  when  she  was 
in  her  right  mind  again;  also  that  the  child, 
you,  should  be  brought  up  to  speak  and  think 
in  our  own  ancient  language,  and  that  in  all 
ways  you  should  grow  up  a  true  Gael.  I  have 
done  my  best,  Alan? " 

"Indeed,  indeed  you  have.  I  shall  never, 
never  forget  that  you  have  been  my  mother 
to  me." 

"Well,  my  husband  never  forgave  that. 
He  acquiesced,  but  he  never  forgave.  For 
long,  and  I  fear  to  this  day,  he  persists  in  his 
belief  that  you  are  really  my  illegitimate  child, 
and  that  Silis  was  right  in  thinking  that  I  had 
succeeded  in  having  my  own  new-born  babe 
transferred  to  her  arms,  while  her  dead  off- 
spring was  brought  to  me,  and,  as  my  own, 
interred.  It  has  created  a  bitter  feud, 


The  Unfolding  of  the  Scroll          141 

and  that  is  why  he  hates  the  sight  of  you. 
That,  too,  Alan,  is  why  he  would  never 
consent  to  your  marriage  with  either  Ynys 
or  Annaik." 

"But  you  yourself  urged  me  a  little  ago  to 
.  .  .  to  .  .  .  marry  Annaik." 

"  I  had  a  special  reason.  Besides,  I  of 
course  know  the  truth.  In  his  heart,  God 
knows,  my  husband  cannot  doubt  it." 

"  Then  tell  me  this:  is  my  father  dead  also, 
as  I  have  long  surmised?  "< 

"No  .  .  .  yes,  yes,  Alan,  he  is  dead." 

Alan  noticed  his  aunt's  confusion,  and  re- 
garded her  steadily. 

"Why  do  you  first  say  'no'  and  then 
'yes'?" 

"Because  .  .  ." 

But  here  again  an  interruption  occurred. 
The  portiere  moved  back,  and  then  the  wide 
doors  disparted.  Into  the  salon  was  wheeled 
a  chair,  in  which  sat  the  Marquis  de  Keri- 
val.  Behind  him  was  his  attendant;  at 
his  side,  Kermorvan  the  steward.  The  face 
of  the  seigneur  was  still  deathly  pale,  and  the 
features  were  curiously  drawn.  The  silky 


142  Green  Fire 

hair,  too,  seemed  whiter  than  ever,  and  white 
as  foam-drift  on  a  dark  wave  were  the  long 
thin  hands  which  lay  on  the  lap  of  the  black 
velvet  shooting  jacket  he  wore. 

"Ah,  Lois,  is  this  a  prepared  scene?"  he 
exclaimed  in  a  cold  and  sneering  voice,  "or, 
has  the  young  man  known  all  along?" 

"Tristan,  I  have  not  yet  told  him  what  I 
now  know.  Be  merciful." 

"Alan  MacAlasdair,  as  the  Marquise  here 
calls  you, — and  she  ought  to  know, — have 
you  learned  yet  the  name  and  rank  of  your 
father? " 

"No." 

"Tell  him,  Lois." 

"  Tristran,  listen.  All  is  over  now.  Soon 
I,  too,  shall  be  gone.  In  the  name  of  God  I 
pray  you  to  relent  from  this  long  cruelty,  this 
remorseless  infamy.  You  know  as  well  as  I 
do  that  our  first-born  is  dead  twenty-five 
years  ago,  and  that  this  man  here  is  truly  the 
son  of  Silis,  my  sister.  And  here  is  one  over- 
whelming proof  for  you:  /  have  just  been 
urging  him  to  marry  Annaik." 

At  that  Tristran  the  Silent  was  no  longer 


The  Unfolding  of  the  Scroll         143 

silent.  With  a  fierce  laugh  he  turned  to  the 
steward. 

"I  call  you  to  witness,  Raif  Kermorvan, 
that  I  would  kill  Annaik,  or  Ynys  either  for 
that  matter,  before  I  would  allow  such  an 
unnatural  union.  Once  and  for  all  I  abso- 
lutely ban  it.  Besides  .  .  .  Listen,  you  there 
with  your  father's  eyes!  You  are  sufficiently 
a  Gael  to  feel  that  you  would  not  marry  the 
daughter  of  a  man  who  killed  your  father?  " 

"  God  forbid!  " 

"Well,  then,  God  does  forbid.  Lois,  tell 
this  man  what  you  know." 

"Alan,"  began  the  Marquise  quaveringly, 
her  voice  fluttering  like  a  dying  bird,  "the 
name  of  your  father  is  ...  is  ...  Alasdair 
.  .  .  Alasdair  Carmichael! " 

"Carmichad!" 

For  a  moment  he  was  dazed,  bewildered. 
When,  recently,  had  he  heard  that  name? 

Then  it  flashed  upon  him.  He  turned  with 
flaming  eyes  to  where  the  Marquis  sat,  quietly 
watching  him. 

"  Oh,  my  God!  "  That  was  all.  He  could 
say  no  more.  His  heart  was  in  his  throat. 


144  Green  Fire 

Then,  hoarse  and  trembling,  he  put  out  his 
hands. 

"  Tell  me  it  is  not  true!  Tell  me  it  is  not 
true!  " 

"  What  is  not  true,  Alan  Carmichael?" 

"That  that  was  he  who  died  in  the  wood 
yonder." 

"  That  was  General  Alasdair  Carmichael." 

"My  father?" 

"Your  father!" 

"But,  you  devil,  you  murdered  him!  I 
saw  you  do  it!  You  knew  it  was  he — and 
you  killed  him.  You  knew  he  would  not  try 
to  kill  you,  and  you  waited;  then,  when  he 
had  fired,  you  took  careful  aim  and  killed 
him!" 

"  You  reiterate,  my  friend.  These  are 
facts  with  which  I  am  familiar." 

The  cool,  sneering  tone  stung  Alan  to  mad- 
ness. He  advanced  menacingly. 

"  Murderer,  you  shall  not  escape!  " 

"A  fitting  sentiment,  truly,  from  a  man 
who  wants  to  marry  my  daughter!  " 

"  Marry  your  daughter!  Marry  the  daugh- 
ter of  my  father's  murderer!  I  would  sooner 


The  Unfolding  of  the  Scroll         145 

never  see  the  face  of  woman  again  than  do 
this  thing." 

"Good!  I  am  well  content.  And  now, 
young  man,  you  are  of  age;  you  have  come  into 
your  patrimony,  including  your  ruined  keep 
on  the  island  of  Rona;  and  I  will  trouble 
you  to  go — to  leave  Kerival  for  good  and  all. " 

Suddenly,  without  a  word,  Alan  moved 
rapidly  forward.  With  a  light  touch  he  laid 
his  hand  for  a  moment  on  the  brow  of  the 
motionless  man  in  the  wheeled  chair. 

"  There!  I  lay  upon  you,  Tristran  de  Keri- 
val, the  curse  of  the  newly  dead  and  of  the 
living!  May  the  evil  that  you  have  done 
corrode  your  brain,  and  may  your  life  silt 
away  as  sand,  and  may  your  soul  know  the 
second  death!" 

As  he  turned  to  leave  the  room  he  saw 
Kerbastiou  standing  in  the  doorway. 

"  Who  are  you,  to  be  standing  there,  Judik 
Kerbastiou?"  demanded  the  steward  angrily. 

11 1  am  Rohan  de  Kerival.  Ask  this  man 
here  if  I  am  not  his  son.  Three  days  ago  the 
woman  who  was  my  mother  died.  She  died  a 
vagrant,  in  the  forest.  But,  nigh  upon  thirty 


146  Green  Fire 

years  ago,  she  was  legally  married  to  the 
young  Marquis  Tristran  de  Kerival.  I  am 
their  child." 

Alan  glanced  at  the  man  he  had  cursed.  A 
strange  look  had  come  into  his  ashy  face. 

"Her  name?"  was  all  Tristran  the  Silent 
said. 

"Annora  Brizeux. " 

"  You  have  proofs? " 

"  I  have  all  the  proofs." 

"You  are  only  a  peasant,  I  disown  you.  I 
know  nothing  of  you  or  of  the  wanton  that 
was  your  mother." 

Without  a  word  Judik  strode  forward  and 
struck  him  full  in  the  face.  At  that  moment 
the  miraculous  happened.  The  Marquise, 
who  had  not  stood  erect  for  years,  rose  to  her 
full  height. 

She,  too,  crossed  the  room. 

"Alan,"  she  cried,  "see!  He  has  killed 
me  as  well  as  your  father,"  and  with  that  she 
swayed,  and  fell  dead,  at  the  feet  of  the  man 
who  had  trampled  her  soul  in  the  dust  and 
made  of  her  blossoming  life  a  drear  and  sterile 
wilderness. 


BOOK  SECOND 
THE  HERDSMAN 


CHAPTER  IX 
RETROSPECTIVE:  FROM  THE  HEBRID  ISLES 

AT  the  end  of  the  third  month  after  that 
disastrous  day  when  Alan  Carmichael  knew 
that  his  father  had  been  slain,  and  before  his 
unknowing  eyes,  by  Tristran  de  Kerival,  a 
great  terror  came  upon  him. 

On  that  day  itself  he  had  left  the  Manor  of 
Kerival.  With  all  that  blood  between  him 
and  his  enemy  he  could  not  stay  a  moment 
longer  in  the  house.  To  have  done  so  would 
have  been  to  show  himself  callous  indeed  to 
the  memory  of  his  father. 

Nor  could  he  see  Ynys.  He  could  not  look 
at  her,  innocent  as  she  was.  She  was  her 
father's  child,  and  her  father  had  murdered 
his  father.  Surely  a  union  would  be  against 
nature;  he  must  fly  while  he  had  the  strength. 

When,  however,  he  had  gained  the  yew  close 


150  Green  Fire 

he  turned,  hesitated,  and  then  slowly  walked 
northward  to  where  the  long  brown  dunes  lay 
in  a  golden  glow  over  against  the  pale  blue  of 
the  sea.  There,  bewildered,  wrought  almost 
to  madness,  he  moved  to  and  fro,  unable  to 
realize  all  that  had  happened,  and  with  bitter 
words  cursing  the  malign  fate  which  had  over- 
taken him. 

The  afternoon  waned,  and  he  was  still  there, 
uncertain  as  ever,  still  confused,  baffled, 
mentally  blind. 

Then  suddenly  he  saw  the  figure  of  Yann  the 
Dumb,  his  friend  and  clansman,  Ian  Macdon- 
ald.  The  old  man  seemed  to  understand  at 
once  that,  after  what  had  happened,  Alan 
Carmichael  would  never  go  back  to  Kerival. 

"Why  do  you  come  to  see  me  here,  Ian?" 
Alan  had  asked  wearily. 

When  Ian  began,  "  Thiginn  gu  d'choimhead 
...  I  would  come  to  see  you,  though  your 
home  were  a  rock-cave,"  the  familiar  sound 
of  the  Gaelic  did  more  than  any  thing  else  to 
clear  his  mind  of  the  shadows  which  overlay  it. 

"Yes,  Alan  MacAlasdair,"  Ian  answered,  in 
response  to  an  eager  question,  "whatever  I 


Retrospective:  From  the  Hebrid  Isles    151 

know  is  yours  now,  since  Lois  nic  Choinneach 
is  dead,  poor  lady;  though,  sure,  it  is  the  best 
thing  she  could  be  having  now,  that  death." 

As  swiftly  as  possible  Alan  elicited  all  he 
could  from  the  old  man ;  all  that  there  had  not 
been  time  to  hear  from  the  Marquise.  He 
learned  what  a  distinguished  soldier,  what  a 
fine  man,  what  a  true  Gael,  Alasdair  Car- 
michael  had  been.  When  his  wife  had  died  he 
had  been  involved  in  some  disastrous  lawsuit, 
and  his  deep  sorrow  and  absolute  financial  ruin 
came  to  him  at  one  and  the  same  moment.  It 
was  at  this  juncture,  though  there  were  other 
good  reasons  also,  that  Lois  de  Kerival  had 
undertaken  to  adopt  and  bring  up  Silis's  child. 
When  her  husband  Tristran  had  given  his  con- 
sent, it  was  with  the  stipulation  that  Lois  and 
Alasdair  Carmichael  should  never  meet,  and 
that  the  child  was  not  to  learn  his  surname 
till  he  came  into  the  small  fortune  due  to  him 
through  his  mother. 

This  and  much  else  Alan  learned  from  Ian. 
Out  of  all  the  pain  grew  a  feeling  of  bitter 
hatred  for  the  cold,  hard  man  who  had  wrought 
so  much  unhappiness,  and  were  it  not  for  Ynys 


i52  Green  Fire 

and  Annaik  he  would,  for  the  moment,  have 
rejoiced  that,  in  Judik  Kerbastiou,  Nemesis  had 
appeared.  At  his  first  mention  of  the  daugh- 
ters, Ian  had  looked  at  him  closely. 

"Will  you  be  for  going  back  to  that  house, 
Alan  MacAlasdair? "  he  asked,  and  in  a  tone 
so  marked  that,  even  in  his  distress,  Alan 
noticed  it. 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  go  back,  Ian?" 

"God  forbid!  I  hear  the  dust  on  the  thresh- 
old rising  at  the  thought." 

"We  are  both  in  an  alien  land,  Ian." 

"  Och  is  diombuan  gach  cas  air  fir  gun  eblas — 
Fleeting  is  the  foot  in  a  strange  land,"  said 
the  islander,  using  a  phrase  familiar  to  Gaels 
away  from  the  isles. 

"But  what  can  I  do?" 

"  Sure  you  can  go  to  your  own  place,  Alan 
MacAlasdair.  There  you  can  think  of  what 
you  will  do.  And  before  you  go  I  must  tell 
you  that  your  father's  brother  Uilleam  is  dead, 
so  that  you  have  no  near  kin  now  except  the 
son  of  the  brother  of  your  father,  Don- 
nacha  Ban  as  he  is  called — or  was  called,  for  I 
will  be  hearing  a  year  or  more  ago  that  he, 


Retrospective:  From  the  Hebrid  Isles    153 

too,  went  under  the  wave.  He  would  be  your 
own  age,  and  that  close  as  a  month  or  week,  I 
am  thinking." 

"  Nevertheless,  Ian,  I  cannot  go  without 
seeing  my  cousin  Ynys  once  more." 

"  You  will  never  be  for  marrying  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  man  that  murdered  your  father? " 
Ian  spoke  in  horrified  amaze,  adding,  "  Sure, 
if  that  were  so,  it  would  indeed  mean  that  they 
may  talk  as  they  like  of  this  southland  as  akin 
to  Gaeldom,  though  that  is  not  a  thought  that 
will  bring  honey  to  the  hive  of  my  brain; — for 
no  man  of  the  isles  would  ever  forget  there 
that  the  blood  of  a  father  cries  up  to  the  stars 
themselves." 

"Have  you  no  message  for  me,  from  .  .  . 
from  .  .  .  her?" 

"Ay,"  answered  the  old  islesman  reluct- 
antly. "Here  it  is.  I  did  not  give  it  to  you 
before,  for  fear  you  should  be  weak." 

Without  a  word,  Alan  snatched  the  pencilled 
note.  It  had  no  beginning  or  signature,  and 
ran  simply:  "  My  mother  is  dead,  too.  After 
all  that  has  happened  to-day  I  know  we  cannot 
meet.  I  know,  too,  that  I  love  you  with  all 


154  Green  Fire 

my  heart  and  soul;  that  I  have  given  you 
my  deathless  devotion.  But,  unless  you  say 
'Come,'  it  is  best  that  you  go  away  at  once, 
and  that  we  never  see  each  other  again." 

At  that,  Alan  had  torn  off  the  half  sheet, 
and  written  a  single  word  upon  it. 

It  was  "Come" 

This  he  gave  to  Ian,  telling  him  to  go 
straightway  with  it,  and  hand  the  note  to 
Ynys  in  person.  "Also,"  he  added,  "fulfil 
unquestioningly  every  thing  she  may  tell  you 
to  do  or  not  to  do." 

An  hour  or  more  after  Ian  had  gone,  and 
when  a  dark,  still  gloaming  had  begun,  he 
came  again,  but  this  time  with  Ynys.  He  and 
she  walked  together;  behind  them  came  four 
horses,  led  by  Ian.  When  the  lovers  met, 
they  had  stood  silent  for  some  moments. 
Then  Ynys,  knowing  what  was  in  Alan's  mind, 
asked  if  she  were  come  for  life  or  death. 

"I  love  you,  dear,"  was  his  answer;  "I 
cannot  live  without  you.  If  you  be  in  truth 
the  daughter  of  the  man  who  slew  my  father, 
why  should  his  evil  blood  be  our  undoing  also? 
God  knows  but  that  even  thus  may  his  punish- 


Retrospective:  From  the  Hebrid  Isles    155 

ment  be  begun.  All  his  thoughts  were  upon 
you  and  Annaik." 

"Annaik  is  gone." 

"Gone!  Annaik  gone!  Where  has  she 
gone?" 

"  I  know  nothing.  She  sent  me  a  line  to 
say  that  she  would  never  sleep  in  Kerival 
again;  that  something  had  changed  her  whole 
life;  that  she  would  return  three  days  hence 
for  our  mother's  funeral;  and  that  thereafter 
she  and  I  would  never  meet." 

In  a  flash  Alan  saw  many  things;  but 
deepest  of  all  he  saw  the  working  of  doom. 
On  the  very  day  of  his  triumph  Tristran  de 
Kerival  had  lost  all,  and  found  only  that 
which  made  life  more  bitter  than  death. 
Stammeringly  now,  Alan  sought  to  say  some- 
thing about  Annaik ;  that  there  was  a  secret,  an 
unhappiness,  a  sorrow,  which  he  must  explain. 

But  at  that  Ynys  had  pointed  to  the  dim 
gray-brown  sea. 

"  There,  Alan,  let  us  bury  it  all  there ;  every 
thing,  every  thing!  Either  you  and  I  must 
find  our  forgetfulness  there,  or  we  must 
drown  therein  all  this  terrible  past  which  has 


156  Green  Fire 

an  inexplicable,  a  menacing  present.  Dear,  I 
am  ready.  Shall  it  be  life  or  death?  " 

"Life." 

That  was  all  that  was  said.  Alan  leaned 
forward,  and  tenderly  kissing  her,  took  her  in 
his  arms.  Then  he  turned  to  Ian. 

"Ian  mac  Iain,  I  call  you  to  witness  that  I 
take  Ynys  de  Kerival  as  my  wife;  that  in  this 
taking  all  the  blood-feud  that  lies  betwixt  us 
is  become  as  nought;  and  that  the  past  is 
past.  Henceforth  I  am  Alan  Carmichael,  and 
she  here  is  Ynys  CarmichaeL  " 

At  that,  Ian  had  bowed  his  head.  It  was 
against  the  tradition  of  his  people;  but  he 
loved  Ynys  as  well  as  Alan,  and  secretly  he 
was  glad. 

Thereafter,  Alan  and  Ynys  had  mounted, 
and  ridden  slowly  southward  through  the 
dusk;  while  Ian  followed  on  the  third  horse, 
with,  in  rein,  its  companion,  on  which  were 
the  apparel  and  other  belongings  which  Ynys 
had  hurriedly  put  together. 

They  were  unmolested  in  their  flight. 
Indeed,  they  met  no  one,  till,  at  the  end  of 


Retrospective:  From  the  Hebrid  Isles   157 

the  Forest  of  Kerival,  they  emerged  near 
the  junction  with  the  high-road  at  a  place 
called  Trois  Chenes.  Then  a  woman,  a 
gypsy  vagrant,  insisted  disaster  would  ensue 
if  they  went  over  her  tracks  that  night  with- 
out first  doing  something  to  avert  evil.  They 
must  cross  her  hand  with  silver,  she  said. 

Impatient  as  he  was,  Alan  stopped,  and 
allowed  the  gypsy  to  have  her  will. 

She  looked  at  the  hand  Ynys  held  out 
through  the  obscurity,  and  almost  immedi- 
ately dropped  it. 

' '  Beware  of  crossing  the  sea, "  she  said.  ' '  I 
see  your  death  floating  on  a  green  wave." 

Ynys  shuddered,  but  said  nothing.  When 
Alan  put  out  his  hand  the  woman  held  it  in 
hers  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  pondered  it 
intently. 

"Be  quick,  my  good  woman,"  he  urged, 
"we  are  in  a  hurry." 

"It  will  be  behind  the  shadow  when  we 
meet  again,"  was  all  her  reply:  enigmatical 
words,  which  yet  in  his  ears  had  a  sombre 
significance.  But  he  was  even  more 
perturbed  by  the  fact  that,  before  she  relin- 


158  Green  Fire 

quished  his  hand,  she  stooped  abruptly  and 
kissed  it. 

As  the  fugitives  rode  onward  along  the  dusky 
high-road,  Alan  whispered  to  Ynys  that  he  could 
not  forget  the  gypsy;  that  in  some  strange 
way  she  haunted  him;  and  even  seemed  to 
him  to  be  linked  to  that  disastrous  day. 

"That  may  well  be,"  Ynys  had  answered, 
"for  the  woman  was  Annaik." 

Onward  they  rode  till  they  came  to  Haut- 
Kerloek,  the  ancient  village  on  the  slope  of 
the  hill  above  the  little  town.  There,  at  the 
Gloire  de  Kerival  they  stopped  for  the  night. 
Next  morning  they  resumed  their  journey, 
and  the  same  afternoon  reached  St.  Blaise- 
sur-Loise,  where  they  knew  they  would  find 
the  body  of  General  Alasdair  Carmichael. 

And  it  was  thus  that,  by  the  strange  irony  of 
fate,  Alasdair  Carmichael,  who  had  never  seen 
his  son,  who  in  turn  had  unknowingly  wit- 
nessed his  father's  tragic  death,  was  followed 
to  the  grave-side  by  that  dear  child  for  whom 
he  had  so  often  longed,  and  that  by  Alan's 
side  was  the  daughter  of  the  man  who  had 


Retrospective:  From  the  Hebrid  Isles    159 

done  so  much  to  ruin  his  life  and  had  at  the 
last  slain  him.  At  the  same  hour,  on  the 
same  day,  Lois  de  Kerival  was  laid  to  her 
rest,  with  none  of  her  kith  and  kin  to  lament 
her;  for  Tristran  the  Silent  was  alone  in  his 
austere  grief.  Two  others  were  there,  at 
whom  the  Cure  looked  askance:  the  rude 
woodlander,  Judik  Kerbastiou,  and  another 
forest  estray,  a  gypsy  woman  with  a  shawl 
over  her  head.  The  latter  must  have  known 
the  Marquise's  charity,  for  the  good  woman 
wept  quietly  throughout  the  service  of  com- 
mittal, and,  when  she  turned  to  go,  the  Cure 
heard  a  sob  in  her  throat. 

It  took  but  a  brief  while  for  Alan  to  settle 
his  father's  few  affairs.  Among  the  papers 
he  found  one  addressed  to  himself:  a  long 
letter  wherein  was  set  forth  not  only  all 
necessary  details  concerning  Alan's  mother 
and  father,  but  also  particulars  about  the 
small  fortune  that  was  in  keeping  for  him  in 
Edinburgh,  and  the  lonely  house  on  the  lonely 
Isle  of  Rona  among  the  lonely  Hebrides. 

In  St.  Blaise  Alan  and  Ynys  went  before 
the  civil  authorities,  and  were  registered  as 


160  Green   Fire 

man  and  wife.  The  next  day  they  resumed 
their  journey  toward  that  exile  which  they 
had  in  view. 

Thereafter,  slowly,  and  by  devious  ways, 
they  fared  far  north.  At  Edinburgh  Alan  had 
learned  all  that  was  still  unexplained.  He 
found  that  there  would  be  enough  money  to 
enable  Ynys  and  himself  to  live  quietly,  par- 
ticularly at  so  remote  a  place  as  Rona.  The 
castle  or  "keep"  there  was  unoccupied,  and 
had,  indeed,  long  been  untenanted  save  by  the 
widow-woman  Kirsten  Macdonald,  lan's  sister. 
In  return  for  this  home,  she  had  kept  the 
solitary  place  in  order.  All  the  furniture  that 
had  been  there,  when  Alasdair  Carmichael 
was  last  in  Rona,  remained.  In  going 
thither,  Alan  and  Ynys  would  be  going  home. 

The  westward  journey  was  a  revelation 
to  them.  Never  had  there  been  so  beauti- 
ful a  May,  they  were  told.  They  had 
lingered  long  at  the  first  place  where 
they  heard  the  sweet  familiar  sound  of 
the  Gaelic.  Hand  in  hand,  they  wandered 
over  the  hill-sides  of  which  the  very 
names  had  a  poignant  home-sweetness; 


Retrospective:   From  the  Hebrid  Isles    161 

and  long,  hot  hours  they  spent  together  on 
lochs  of  which  Lois  de  Kerival  had  often 
spoken  with  deep  longing  in  her  voice. 

As  they  neared  the  extreme  of  the  main- 
land, Alan's  excitement  deepened.  He  spoke 
hardly  a  word  on  the  day  the  steamer  left  the 
Argyle  coast  behind,  and  headed  for  the  dim 
isles  of  the  sea,  Coll  and  Tiree;  and  again  on 
the  following  day  Ynys  saw  how  distraught 
he  was,  for,  about  noon,  the  coast-line  of 
Uist  loomed,  faintly  blue,  upon  the  dark 
Atlantic  horizon. 

At  Loch  Boisdale,  where  they  disembarked, 
and  whence  they  had  to  sail  the  remainder  of 
their  journey  in  a  fishing  schooner,  which  by 
good  fortune  was  then  there  and  disengaged, 
Ian  was  for  the  first  time  recognized.  All 
that  evening  Alan  and  Ynys  talked  with  the 
islesmen;  Alan  finding,  to  his  delight,  his 
Gaelic  was  so  good  that  none  for  a  moment 
suspected  he  had  not  lived  in  the  isles  all  his 
life.  That  of  Ynys,  however,  though  fluent, 
had  a  foreign  sound  in  it  which  puzzled  the 
admiring  fishermen. 

It  was  an  hour  after  sunrise  when  the  Blue 
ii 


1 62  Green  Fire 

Herring  sailed  out  of  Loch  Boisdale,  and  it 
was  an  hour  before  sunset  when  the  anchor 
dropped  in  Borosay  Haven. 

On  this  night  Alan  perceived  the  first  sign 
of  aloofness  among  his  fellow  Gaels.  Hitherto 
every  one  had  been  cordial,  and  he  and  Ynys 
had  rejoiced  in  the  courtesy  and  genial  friend- 
liness which  they  had  everywhere  encountered. 

But  in  Balnaree  ("Baille'-na-Righ"),  the  little 
village  wherein  was  focussed  all  that  Borosay 
had  to  boast  of  in  the  way  of  civic  life,  he 
could  not  disguise  from  himself  that  again  and 
again  he  was  looked  at  askance. 

Rightly  or  wrongly  he  took  this  to  be  re- 
sentment because  of  his  having  wed  Ynys,  the 
daughter  of  the  man  who  had  murdered  Alas- 
dair  Carmichael.  So  possessed  was  he  by  this 
idea  that  he  did  not  remember  how  little  likely 
the  islanders  were  to  know  aught  concern- 
ing Ynys,  or  indeed  any  thing  beyond  the  fact 
that  Alasdair  MacAlasdair  Rhona  had  died 
abroad. 

The  trouble  became  more  than  an  imaginary 
one  when,  on  the  morrow,  he  tried  to  find  a 
boat  for  the  passage  to  Rona.  But  for  the 


Retrospective:  From  the  Hebrid  Isles    163 

Frozen  Hand,  as  the  triple-peaked  hill  to  the 
south  of  Balnaree  was  called,  Rona  would 
have  been  visible;  nor  was  it,  with  a  fair  wind, 
more  than  an  hour's  sail  distant. 

Nevertheless,  every  one  to  whom  he  spoke 
showed  a  strange  reluctance.  At  last,  in  de- 
spair, he  asked  an  old  man  of  his  own  surname 
why  there  was  so  much  difficulty. 

In  the  island  way,  Sheumas  Carmichael  re- 
plied that  the  people  on  Elleray,  the  island 
adjacent  to  Rona,  were  incensed. 

"But  incensed  at  what?" 

"Well,  at  this  and  at  that.  But  for  one 
thing  they  are  not  having  any  dealings  with 
the  Carmichaels.  They  are  all  Macdonalds, 
there,  Macdonalds  of  Barra.  There  is  a  feud, 
I  am  thinking;  though  I  know  nothing  of  it; 
no,  not  I." 

"  But  Seumas  mac  Eachainn,  you  know  well 
yourself  that  there  are  almost  no  Carmichaels 
to  have  a  feud  with !  There  are  you  and  your 
brother,  and  there  is  your  cousin  over  at 
Sgbrr-Bhan  on  the  other  side  of  Borosay. 
Who  else  is  there?  " 

To  this  the  man  could  say  nothing.     Dis- 


164  Green  Fire 

tressed,  Alan  sought  Ian  and  bade  him  find 
out  what  he  could.  He,  also,  however,  was 
puzzled  and  even  seriously  perturbed.  That 
some  evil  was  at  work  could  not  be  doubted ; 
and  that  it  was  secret  boded  ill. 

Ian  was  practically  a  stranger  in  Borosay 
because  of  his  long  absence.  But  though  this, 
for  a  time,  shut  him  off  from  his  fellow  island- 
ers, and  retarded  his  discovery  of  what 
strange  reason  accounted  for  the  apparently 
inexplicable  apathy  shown  by  the  fishermen  of 
Balnaree, — an  apathy,  too,  so  much  to  their 
own  disadvantage, — it  enabled  him,  on  the 
other  hand,  to  make  a  strong  appeal  to  the 
clan-side  of  the  islanders'  natures.  After  all, 
Ian  mac  Iain  mhic  Dhonuill  was  one  of  them, 
and  though  he  came  there  with  a  man  in  a 
shadow  (though  this  phrase  was  not  used  in 
lan's  hearing),  that  was  not  his  fault. 

Suddenly  Ian  remembered  a  fact  that  he 
should  have  thought  of  at  once.  There  was 
the  old  woman,  his  sister  Kirsten.  He  would 
speak  of  her,  and  of  their  long  separation, 
and  of  his  desire  to  see  her  again  before  he 
died. 


Retrospective:  From  the  Hebrid  Isles    165 

This  made  a  difficult  thing  easy.  Within  an 
hour  a  boat  was  ready  to  take  the  travellers 
to  the  Isle  of  the  Caves — as  Rona  was  called 
locally.  Before  the  hour  was  gone,  they,  with 
the  stores  of  food  and  other  things  they  had 
been  advised  to  take  with  them,  were  slipping 
seaward  out  of  Borosay  Haven. 

The  moment  the  headland  was  rounded  the 
heights  of  Rona  came  into  view.  Great  gaunt 
cliffs  they  are,  precipices  of  black  basalt; 
though  on  the  south  side  they  fall  away  in 
grassy  declivities  which  hang  a  greenness  over 
the  wandering  wave  forever  sobbing  round 
that  desolate  shore.  But  it  was  not  till  the 
Sg6rr-Dhu,  a  conical  black  rock  at  the  south- 
east end  of  the  island,  was  reached  that  the 
stone  keep,  known  as  Caisteal-Rhona,  came  in 
sight. 

It  stands  at  the  landward  extreme  of  a 
rocky  ledge,  on  the  margin  of  a  green  airidh. 
Westward  is  a  small  dark-blue  sea  loch,  no 
more  than  a  narrow  haven.  To  the  north- 
west rise  sheer  the  ocean-fronting  precipitous 
cliffs;  northward,  above  the  green  pasture 
and  a  stretch  of  heather,  is  a  woodland-belt  of 


166  Green  Fire 

some  three  or  four  hundred  pine-trees.  It 
might  well  be  called  I-monair,  as  Aodh  the 
Islander  sang  of  it;  for  it  is  ever  echoing  with 
murmurous  noises.  If  the  waves  dash  against 
it  from  the  south  or  east,  a  loud  crying  is 
upon  the  faces  of  the  rocks;  if  from  the  north 
or  north-east,  there  is  a  dull  iteration,  and 
amid  the  pines  a  continual  soughing  sea  voice. 
But  when  the  wind  blows  from  the  south-west, 
or  the  huge  Atlantic  billows  surge  out  of  the 
west,  Rona  is  a  place  filled  with  an  indescrib- 
able tumult.  Through  the  whole  island  goes 
the  myriad  echo  of  a  hollow  booming,  with  an 
incessant  sound  as  though  waters  were  pouring 
through  vast  hidden  conduits  in  the  heart  of 
every  precipice,  every  rock,  every  bowlder. 
This  is  because  of  the  arcades  of  which  it 
consists,  for  from  the  westward  the  island  has 
been  honeycombed  by  the  sea.  No  living  man 
has  ever  traversed  all  those  mysterious,  wind- 
ing  sea  galleries.  Many  have  perished  in  the 
attempt.  In  the  olden  days  the  Uisteans  and 
Barrovians  sought  refuge  there  from  the  ma- 
rauding Danes  and  other  pirates  out  of  Lochlin ; 
and  in  the  time  when  the  last  Scottish  king 


Retrospective:  From  the  Hebrid  Isles    167 

took  shelter  in  the  west  many  of  his  island 
followers  found  safety  among  these  perilous 
arcades. 

Some  of  them  reach  to  an  immense  height. 
These  are  filled  with  a  pale  green  gloom  which 
in  fine  weather,  and  at  noon  or  toward  sun- 
down, becomes  almost  radiant.  But  most 
have  only  a  dusky  green  obscurity,  and  some 
are  at  all  times  dark  with  a  darkness  that  has 
seen  neither  sun  nor  moon  nor  star  for  un- 
known ages.  Sometimes,  there,  a  phosphores- 
cent wave  will  spill  a  livid  or  a  cold  blue  flame, 
and  for  a  moment  a  vast  gulf  of  dripping 
basalt  be  revealed;  but  day  and  night,  night 
and  day,  from  year  to  year,  from  age  to  age, 
that  awful  wave-clamant  darkness  prevails 
unbroken. 

To  the  few  who  know  some  of  the  secrets  of 
the  Passages,  it  is  possible,  except  when  a  gale 
blows  from  any  quarter  but  the  north,  to  thrid 
these  dim  arcades  in  a  narrow  boat,  and  so  to 
pass  from  the  Hebrid  Seas  to  the  outer  At- 
lantic. But  to  one  unaware  of  the  clews  there 
might  well  be  no  return  to  the  light  of  the 
open  day;  for  in  that  maze  of  winding  galleries 


1 68  Green  Fire 

and  dim,  sea-washed,  and  forever  unlitten 
arcades,  there  is  only  a  hopeless  bewilder- 
ment. Once  bewildered,  there  is  no  hope; 
and  the  lost  adventurer  will  remain  there  idly 
drifting  from  barren  corridor  to  corridor,  till 
he  perish  of  hunger  and  thirst,  or,  maddened 
by  the  strange  and  appalling  gloom  and  the 
unbroken  silence, — for  there  the  muffled  voice 
of  the  sea  is  no  more  than  a  whisper, — he  leap 
into  the  green  waters  which  forever  slide 
stealthily  from  ledge  to  ledge. 

From  Ian  mac  Iain  Alan  had  heard  of  such 
an  isle,  though  he  had  not  known  it  to  be 
Rona.  Now,  as  he  approached  his  wild,  re- 
mote home  he  thought  of  these  death-haunted 
corridors,  avenues  of  the  grave  as  they  are 
called  in  the  "  Cumha  Fhir-Mearanach  Aon- 
ghas  mhic  Dhonuill — the  Lament  of  mad 
Angus  Macdonald." 

When,  at  last,  the  unwieldy  brown  coble 
sailed  into  the  little  haven  it  was  to  create 
unwonted  excitement  among  the  few  fisher- 
men who  put  in  there  frequently  for  bait.  A 
group  of  eight  or  ten  was  upon  the  rocky 
ledge  beyond  Caisteal-Rhona,  among  them  the 


Retrospective:  From  the  Hebrid  Isles    169 

elderly  woman  who  was  sister  to  Ian  mac 
Iain. 

At  Alan's  request,  Ian  went  ashore  in  ad- 
vance, in  a  small  punt.  He  was  to  wave  his 
hand  if  all  were  well,  for  Alan  could  not  but 
feel  apprehensive  on  account  of  the  strange 
ill-will  that  had  shown  itself  at  Borosay. 

It  was  with  relief  that  he  saw  the  signal 
when,  after  Ian  had  embraced  his  sister,  and 
shaken  hands  with  all  the  fishermen,  he  had 
explained  that  the  son  of  Alasdair  Carmichael 
was  come  out  of  the  south,  and  with  a  beau- 
tiful young  wife,  too,  and  was  henceforth  to 
live  at  Caisteal-Rhona. 

All  there  uncovered  and  waved  their  hats. 
Then  a  shout  of  welcome  went  up,  and  Alan's 
heart  was  glad,  and  that  of  Ynys.  But  the 
moment  he  had  set  foot  on  land  he  saw  a 
startled  look  come  into  the  eyes  of  the  fisher- 
men— a  look  that  deepened  swiftly  into  one  of 
aversion,  almost  of  fear. 

One  by  one  the  men  moved  away,  awk- 
ward in  their  embarrassment.  Not  one  came 
forward  with  outstretched  hand,  nor  said  a 
word  of  welcome. 


170  Green  Fire 

At  first  amazed,  then  indignant,  Ian  re- 
proached them.  They  received  his  words  in 
ashamed  silence.  Even  when  with  a  bitter 
tongue  he  taunted  them,  they  answered  nothing. 

"Giorsal,"  said  Ian,  turning  in  despair  to 
his  sister,  "what  is  the  meaning  of  this  folly?  " 

But  even  she  was  no  longer  the  same.  Her 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  Alan  with  a  look  of 
dread  and  indeed  of  horror.  It  was  unmis- 
takable, and  Alan  himself  was  conscious  of  it, 
with  a  strange  sinking  of  the  heart.  "Speak, 
woman!"  he  demanded.  "What  is  the  mean- 
ing of  this  thing?  Why  do  you  and  these 
men  look  at  me  askance?" 

"  God  forbid ! "  answered  Giorsal  Mac- 
donald  with  white  lips;  "God  forbid  that 
we  look  at  the  son  of  Alasdair  Carmichael 
askance.  But  .  .  ." 

"But  what?" 

With  that  the  woman  put  her  apron  over 
her  head  and  moved  away,  muttering  strange 
words. 

"  Ian,  what  is  this  mystery?  " 

It  was  Ynys  who  spoke  now,  for  on  Alan's 
face  was  a  shadow,  and  in  his  eyes  a  deep 


Retrospective:  From  the  Hebrid  Isles    171 

gloom.  She,  too,  was  white,  and  had  fear  in 
her  eyes. 

"How  am  I  for  knowing,  Ynys-nighean- 
Lhois?  It  is  all  a  darkness  to  me  also.  But 
I  will  find  out." 

That,  however,  was  easier  for  Ian  to  say  than 
to  do.  Meanwhile,  the  brown  cobble  tacked 
back  to  Borosay,  and  the  fishermen  sailed  away 
to  the  Barra  coasts,  and  Alan  and  Ynys  were 
left  solitary  in  their  wild  and  remote  home. 

But  in  that  very  solitude  they  found  healing. 
From  what  Giorsal  hinted,  they  came  to  be- 
lieve that  the  fishermen  had  experienced  one 
of  those  strange  dream-waves  which,  in 
remote  isles,  occur  at  times,  when  whole 
communities  will  be  wrought  by  the  self- 
same fantasy.  When  day  by  day  went  past, 
and  no  one  came  nigh  them,  at  first  they 
were  puzzled  and  even  resentful,  but  this 
passed  and  soon  they  were  glad  to  be  alone. 
Only,  Ian  knew  that  there  was  another  cause 
for  the  inexplicable  aversion  that  had  been 
shown.  But  he  was  silent,  and  he  kept  a 
patient  watch  for  the  hour  that  the  future 
held  in  its  dim  shroud.  As  for  Giorsal,  she 


172  Green  Fire 

was  dumb;  but  no  more  looked  at  Alan 
askance. 

And  so  the  weeks  went.  Occasionally,  a 
fishing  smack  came  with  the  provisions  for 
the  weekly  despatch  of  which  Alan  had 
arranged  at  Loch  Boisdale,  and  sometimes 
the  Barra  men  put  in  at  the  haven,  though 
they  would  never  stay  long,  and  always 
avoided  Alan  as  much  as  was  possible. 

In  that  time  Alan  and  Ynys  came  to  know 
and  love  their  strangely  beautiful  island  home. 
Hours  and  hours  at  a  time  they  spent  explor- 
ing the  dim,  green  winding  sea  galleries,  till  at 
last  they  knew  the  main  corridors  thoroughly. 
They  had  even  ventured  into  some  of  the 
narrow  snake-like  passages,  but  never  for 
long,  because  of  the  awe  and  dread  these  held, 
silent  estuaries  of  the  grave. 

There,  too,  they  forgot  all  the  sorrow  that 
had  been  theirs,  forgot  the  shadow  of  death 
which  lay  between  them.  They  buried  all  in 
the  deep  sea  of  love  that  was  about  the  rock 
of  their  passion.  For,  as  of  another  Alan  and 
another  woman,  the  mirdhei  was  upon  them: 
the  dream-spell  of  love. 


Retrospective:  From  the  Hebrid  Isles    173 

Day  by  day,  with  them  as  with  that  Alan 
and  Sorcha  of  whom  they  had  often  heard, 
their  joy  had  grown,  like  a  flower  moving  ever 
to  the  sun;  and  as  it  grew  the  roots  deepened, 
and  the  tendrils  met  and  intertwined  round 
the  two  hearts,  till  at  last  they  were  drawn 
together  and  became  one,  as  two  moving  rays 
of  light  will  converge  into  one  beam,  or  the 
song  of  two  singers  blend  and  become  as 
the  song  of  one. 

As  the  weeks  passed  the  wonder  of  the 
dream  became  at  times  a  brooding  passion,  at 
times  almost  an  ecstasy.  Ossian  and  the 
poets  of  old  speak  of  a  strange  frenzy  that 
came  upon  the  brave;  and,  sure,  there  is  a 
mircath  of  another  kind  now  and  again  in  the 
world,  in  the  green,  remote  places  at  least. 
Aodh  the  islander,  and  Ian-Ban  of  the  hills, 
and  other  dreamer-poets  know  of  it  —  the 
mirdhei,  the  passion  that  is  deeper  than  pas- 
sion, the  dream  that  is  beyond  the  dream. 
This  that  was  once  the  fair  doom  of  another 
Alan  and  Sorcha,  of  whom  Ian  had  often  told 
him  with  hushed  voice  and  dreaming  eyes, 
was  now  upon  himself  and  Ynys. 


174  Green  Fire 

They  were  Love  to  each  other.  In  each 
the  other  saw  the  beauty  of  the  world.  Hand 
in  hand  they  wandered  among  the  wind- 
haunted  pines,  or  along  the  thyme  and  grass 
of  the  summits  of  the  precipices;  or  they 
sailed  for  hours  upon  the  summer  seas,  blue 
lawns  of  moving  azure,  glorious  with  the  sun- 
dazzle  and  lovely  with  purple  cloud-shadows 
and  amethystine  straits  of  floating  weed;  or, 
by  noontide,  or  at  the  full  of  the  moon,  they 
penetrated  far  into  the  dim,  green  arcades, 
and  were  as  shadows  in  a  strange  and  fantas- 
tic but  ineffably  sweet  and  beautiful  dream. 

Day  was  lovely  and  desirable  to  each,  for 
day  dreamed  to  night;  and  night  was  sweet  as 
life  because  it  held  the  new  day  against  its 
dark,  beating  heart.  Week  after  week  passed, 
and  to  Ynys  as  to  Alan  it  was  as  the  going  of 
the  gray  owl's  wing,  swift  and  silent. 

Then  it  was  that,  on  a  day  of  the  days, 
Alan  was  suddenly  stricken  with  a  new  and 
startling  dread. 


CHAPTER  X 
AT    THE   EDGE   OF    THE   SHADOW 

IN  the  hour  that  this  terror  came  upon  him 
Alan  was  alone  upon  the  high  slopes  of  Rona, 
where  the  grass  fails  and  the  moor  purples  at 
an  elevation  of  close  on  a  thousand  feet  above 
the  sea. 

The  day  had  been  cloudless  since  sunrise. 
The  immeasurable  range  of  ocean  expanded 
like  the  single  petal  of  an  azure  flower;  all 
of  one  unbroken  blue  save  for  the  shadows 
of  the  scattered  isles  and  for  the  fugitive 
amethyst  where  floating  weed  suspended. 
An  immense  number  of  birds  congregated 
from  every  quarter.  Guillemots  and  skuas 
and  puffins,  cormorants  and  northern  divers, 
everywhere  darted,  swam,  or  slept  upon  the 
listless  sea,  whose  deep  suspiration  no  more 
than  lifted  a  league-long  calm  here  and 
there,  to  lapse  insensibly,  even  as  it  rose 


176  Green  Fire 

Through  the  not  less  silent  quietudes  of  air 
the  sea-gulls  swept  with  curving  flight,  and 
the  narrow-winged  terns  made  a  constant 
shimmer.  At  remote  altitudes  the  gannet 
motionlessly  drifted.  Oceanward  the  great 
widths  of  calm  were  rent  now  and  again  by 
the  shoulders  of  the  porpoises  which  followed 
the  herring  trail,  their  huge,  black  revolving 
bodies  looming  large  above  the  silent  wave. 
Not  a  boat  was  visible  anywhere;  not  even 
upon  the  most  distant  horizons  did  a  brown 
sail  fleck  itself  duskily  against  the  skyward 
wall  of  steely  blue. 

In  the  great  stillness  which  prevailed,  the 
noise  of  the  surf  beating  around  the  promon- 
tory of  Aonaig  was  audible  ars  a  whisper; 
though  even  in  that  windless  hour  the  inde- 
scribable rumor  of  the  sea,  moving  through 
the  arcades  of  the  island,  filled  the  hollow  of 
the  air  overhead.  Ever  since  the  early  morn- 
ing Alan  had  moved  under  a  strange  gloom. 
Out  of  that  golden  glory  of  midsummer  a 
breath  of  joyous  life  should  have  reached  his 
heart,  but  it  was  not  so.  For  sure,  there  is 
sometimes  in  the  quiet  beauty  of  summer  an 


At  the  Edge  of  the  Shadow         177 

air  of  menace,  a  breath,  a  suspicion,  a  dream- 
premonition,  of  suspended  force — a  force 
antagonistic  and  terrible.  All  who  have 
lived  in  these  lonely  isles  know  the  peculiar 
intensity  of  this  summer  melancholy.  No 
clamor  of  tempestuous  wind,  no  prolonged 
sojourn  of  untimely  rains,  and  no  long  baffling 
of  mists  in  all  the  drear  inclemencies  of  that 
remote  region,  can  produce  the  same  ominous 
and  even  paralyzing  gloom  which  sometimes 
can  be  born  of  ineffable  peace  and  beauty. 
Is  it  that  in  the  human  soul  there  is  mysteri- 
ous kinship  with  the  outer  soul  which  we  call 
Nature;  and  that  in  these  few  supreme  hours 
which  come  at  the  full  of  the  year  we  are,  some- 
times, suddenly  aware  of  the  tremendous  forces 
beneath  and  behind  us,  momently  quiescent? 

Standing  with  Ynys  upon  a  grassy  head- 
land, Alan  had  looked  long  at  the  dream-blue 
perspectives  to  the  southward,  seeing  there  at 
first  no  more  than  innumerable  hidden  path- 
ways of  the  sun,  with  blue-green  and  silver 
radiance  immeasurable,  and  the  very  breath 
and  wonder  and  mystery  of  ocean  life  sus- 
pended as  in  a  dream.  In  the  hearts  of  each 

12 


178  Green  Fire 

deep  happiness  brooded.  Perhaps  it  was  out 
of  these  depths  that  rose  the  dark  flower 
of  this  sudden  apprehension  that  came  upon 
him.  It  was  no  fear  for  Ynys,  nor  for  him- 
self, not  for  the  general  weal:  but  a  pro- 
found disquietude,  a  sense  of  inevitable  ill. 
Ynys  felt  the  tightening  of  his  hand;  and 
saw  the  sudden  change  in  his  face.  It  was 
often  so  with  him.  The  sun-dazzle,  at  which 
he  would  look  with  endless  delight,  finding  in 
it  a  tangible  embodiment  of  the  fugitive 
rhythms  of  cosmic  music  which  floated  every- 
where, would  sometimes  be  a  dazzle  also  in 
his  brain.  In  a  moment  a  strange  bewilder- 
ment would  render  unstable  those  perilous 
sands  of  the  human  brain  which  are  forever 
laved  by  the  strange  waters  of  the  unseen 
life.  When  this  mood  or  fantasy,  or  uncalcul- 
able  accident  occurred,  he  was  often  wrought 
either  by  vivid  dreams,  or  creative  work,  or 
else  would  lapse  into  a  melancholy  from  which 
not  even  the  calling  love  of  Ynys  would 
arouse  him.  When  she  saw  in  his  face  and 
in  his  eyes  this  sudden  bewildered  look,  and 
knew  that  in  some  mysterious  way  the  madness 


At  the  Edge  of  the  Shadow         179 

of  the  beauty  of  the  sea  had  enthralled  him,  she 
took  his  hand  and  moved  with  him  inland.  In 
a  brief  while  the  poignant  fragrance  from  the 
trodden  thyme  and  short  hill-grass,  warmed 
by  the  sun,  rose  as  an  intoxication.  For  that 
hour  the  gloom  went.  But  when,  later,  he 
wandered  away  from  Caisteal-Rhona,  once 
more  the  sense  of  foreboding  was  heavy  upon 
him.  Determined  to  shake  it  off,  he  wandered 
high  among  the  upland  solitudes.  There  a 
cool  air  forever  moved  even  in  the  noons  of 
August;  and  there,  indeed,  at  last,  there 
came  upon  him  a  deep  peace.  With  joy  his 
mind  dwelled  over  and  over  again  upon  all 
that  Ynys  had  been  and  was  to  him;  upon  the 
depth  and  passion  of  their  love  ;  upon  the 
mystery  and  wonder  of  that  coming  life  which 
was  theirs  and  yet  was  not  of  them,  itself 
already  no  more  than  an  unrisen  wave  or  an 
unbloomed  flower,  but  yet  as  inevitable  as 
they,  but  dowered  with  the  light  which  is 
beyond  where  the  mortal  shadows  end. 
Strange,  this  passion  of  love  for  what  is  not; 
strange,  this  deep  longing  of  the  woman — the 
longing  of  the  womb,  the  longing  of  the 


i8o  Green  Fire 

heart,  the  longing  of  the  brain,  the  longing 
of  the  soul — for  the  perpetuation  of  the  life 
she  shares  in  common  with  one  whom  she 
loves;  strange,  this  longing  of  the  man,  a 
longing  deep-based  in  his  nature  as  the  love 
of  life  or  the  fear  of  death,  for  the  gaining 
from  the  woman  he  loves  this  personal  host- 
age against  oblivion.  For  indeed  something 
of  this  so  commonplace,  and  yet  so  divine 
and  mysterious  tide  of  birth,  which  is  for- 
ever at  the  flow  upon  this  green  world,  is 
due  to  an  instinctive  fear  of  cessation.  The 
perpetuation  of  life  is  the  unconscious  protest 
of  humanity  against  the  destiny  of  mortality. 
Thoughts  such  as  these  were  often  with  Alan 
now;  often,  too,  with  Ynys,  in  whom,  indeed, 
all  the  latent  mysticism  which  had  ever  been 
a  bond  between  them  had  latterly  been  con- 
tinually evoked.  Possibly  it  was  the  mere 
shadow  of  his  great  love;  possibly  it  was 
some  fear  of  the  dark  way  wherein  the  sun- 
rise of  each  new  birth  is  involved;  possibly  it 
was  no  more  than  the  melancholy  of  the  isles, 
that  so  wrought  him  on  this  perfect  day. 
Whatsoever  the  reason,  a  deeper  despondency 


At  the  Edge  of  the  Shadow         181 

prevailed  as  noon  waned  into  afternoon.  An 
incident,  deeply  significant  to  him,  in  that 
mood,  at  that  time,  happened  then.  A  few 
hundred  yards  away  from  where  he  stood, 
half  hidden  in  a  little  glen  where  a  fall  of 
water  made  a  continual  spray  among  the 
shadows  of  the  rowan  and  birch,  was  the 
bothie  of  a  woman,  the  wife  of  Neil  MacNeill, 
a  fisherman  of  Aonaig.  She  was  there,  he 
knew,  for  the  summer  pasturing,  and  even  as 
he  recollected  this,  he  heard  the  sound  of  her 
voice  as  she  sang  down  somewhere  by  the 
burnside.  Moving  slowly  toward  the  corrie, 
he  stopped  at  a  mountain  ash  which  overhung 
a  deep  pool.  Looking  down,  he  saw  the 
woman,  Morag  MacNeill,  washing  and  peeling 
potatoes  in  the  clear  brown  water.  And  as 
she  washed  and  peeled,  she  sang  an  old-time 
shealing  hymn  of  the  Virgin-Shepherdess,  of 
Michael  the  White,  and  of  Coluaman  the 
Dove.  It  was  a  song  that,  far  away  in  Brit- 
tany, he  had  heard  Lois,  the  mother  of  Ynys, 
sing  in  one  of  those  rare  hours  when  her 
youth  came  back  to  her  with  something  of 
youth's  passionate  intensity.  He  listened 


1 82  Green  Fire 

now  to  every  word  of  the  doubly  familiar 
Gaelic,  and  when  Morag  finished  the  tears 
were  in  his  eyes,  and  he  stood  for  a  while  as 
one  entranced.* 

"A  Mhicheil  mhin!  nan  steud  geala, 
A  choisin  cios  air  Dragon  fala, 
Air  ghaol  Dia'  us  Mhic  Muire, 
Sgaoil  do  sgiath  oirnn  dian  sinn  uile, 
Sgaoil  do  sgiath  oirnn  dian  sinn  uile. 

"  A  Mhoire  ghradhach!  Mathair  Uain-ghil, 
Cohhair  oirnne,  Oigh  na  h-uaisle; 
A  rioghainn  uai'reach!  a  bhuachaille  nan  treud! 
Cum  ar  cuallach  cuartaich  sinn  le  cheil, 
Cum  ar  cuallach  cuartaich  sinn  le  cheil. 

"  A  Chalum-Chille!  chairdeil,  chaoimh, 
An  ainm  Athar,  Mic,  'us  Spioraid  Naoimh, 
Trid  na  Trithinn!  trid  na  Triath! 
Comraig  sinne,  gleidh  ar  trial, 
Comraig  sinne,  gleidh  ar  trial. 

"  Athair!  A  Mhic!  A  Spioraid  Naoimh! 
Bi'eadh  an  Tri-Aon  leinn,  a  la  's  a  dh-oidhche! 
'S  air  chul  nan  tonn,  no  air  thaobh  nam  beann, 
Bi'dh  ar  Mathair  leinn,  's  bith  A  lamh  fo'r  ceann, 
Bi'dh  ar  Mathair  leinn,  's  bith  A  lamh  fo'r  ceann." 

*  This  hymn  is  taken  down  in  the  Gaelic  and  translated 
by  Mr.  Alexander  Carmichael  of  South  Uist. 


At  the  Edge  of  the  Shadow         183 

[Thou  gentle  Michael  of  the  white  steed, 
Who  subdued  the  Dragon  of  blood, 
For  love  of  God  and  the  Son  of  Mary, 
Spread  over  us  thy  wing,  shield  us  all! 
Spread  over  us  thy  wing,  shield  us  all! 


Mary  Beloved!  Mother  of  the  White  Lamb, 
Protect  us,  thou  Virgin  of  nobleness, 
Queen  of  beauty!  Shepherdess  of  the  flocks! 
Keep  our  cattle,  surround  us  together, 
Keep  our  cattle,  surround  us  together. 

Thou  Columba,  the  friendly,  the  kind, 

In  name  of  the  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Spirit  Holy, 

Through  the  Three-in-One,  through  the  Three, 

Encompass  us,  guard  our  procession, 

Encompass  us,  guard  our  procession. 

Thou  Father!  thou  Son  !  thou  Spirit  Holy! 

Be  the  Three-One  with  us  day  and  night. 

And  on  the  crested  wave,  or  on  the  mountain  side, 

Our  Mother  is  there,  and  her  arm  is  under  our  head, 

Our  Mother  is  there,  and  her  arm  is  under  our  head.] 

After  she  had  ceased  Alan   found   himself 
repeating  whisperingly,  and  again  and  again : 

"  Bi'eadh  an  Tri-Aon  leinn,  a  la  's  a  dh-oidhche! 
'S  air  chul  nan  tonn,  no  air  thaobh  nam  beann." 


1 84  Green  Fire 

Suddenly  the  woman  glanced  upward,  per- 
haps because  of  the  shadow  that  moved 
against  the  green  bracken  below.  With  a 
startled  gesture  she  sprang  to  her  feet. 
Alan  looked  at  her  kindly,  saying  with  a 
smile,  "Sure,  Morag  nic  Tormaid,  it  is  not 
fear  you  need  be  having  of  one  who  is  your 
friend."  Then,  seeing  that  the  woman  stared 
at  him  with  an  intent  gaze,  wherein  was 
terror  as  well  as  surprise,  he  spoke  to  her 
again. 

"Sure,  Morag,  I  am  no  stranger  that  you 
should  be  looking  at  me  with  those  foreign 
eyes."  He  laughed  as  he  spoke,  and  made 
as  though  he  were  about  to  descend  to 
the  burnside.  Unmistakably,  however,  the 
woman  did  not  desire  his  company.  He 
saw  that  with  the  pain  and  bewilderment 
which  had  come  upon  him  whenever  the 
like  happened,  as  so  often  it  had  happened 
since  he  had  come  to  Rona. 

"  Tell  me,  Bean  Neil  MacNeill,  what  is  the 
meaning  of  this  strangeness  that  is  upon  you? 
Why  do  you  not  speak?  Why  do  you  turn 
away  your  head? " 


At  the  Edge  of  the  Shadow         185 

Suddenly  the  woman  flashed  her  black  eyes 
upon  him. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  of  am  Buchaille 
Ban — am  Buchaille  Buidhe?  " 

He  looked  at  her  in  amaze.  Am  Buchaille 
Ban!  .  .  .  The  fair-haired  Herdsman,  the 
yellow-haired  Herdsman!  What  could  she 
mean?  In  days  gone  by,  he  knew,  the 
islanders  had,  in  the  evil  time  after  Cul- 
loden,  so  named  the  fugitive  Prince  who 
had  sought  shelter  in  the  Hebrides;  and 
in  some  of  the  runes  of  an  older  day  still  the 
Saviour  of  the  World  was  sometimes  so 
called,  just  as  Mary  was  called  Bhuachaille 
nan  treud — Shepherdess  of  the  Flocks.  But 
as  Alan  knew  well,  no  allusion  to  either  of 
these  was  intended. 

"  Who  is  the  Herdsman  of  whom  you  speak, 
Morag? " 

"Is  it  no  knowledge  you  have  of  him  at 
all,  Alan  MacAlasdair? " 

"  None.  I  know  nothing  of  the  man, 
nothing  of  what  is  in  your  mind.  Who  is 
the  Herdsman? " 

"You  will  not  be  putting  evil  upon  me  be- 


1 86  Green  Fire 

cause  that  you  saw  me  here  by  the  pool  before 
I  saw  you? " 

"Why  should  I,  woman?  Why  do  you 
think  that  I  have  the  power  of  the  evil  eye? 
Sure,  I  have  done  no  harm  to  you  or  yours, 
and  wish  none.  But  if  it  is  for  peace  to  you 
to  know  it,  it  is  no  evil  I  wish  you,  but  only 
good.  The  Blessing  of  Himself  be  upon  you 
and  yours  and  upon  your  house." 

The  woman  looked  relieved,  but  still  cast 
her  furtive  gaze  upon  Alan,  who  no  longer 
attempted  to  join  her. 

"  I  cannot  be  speaking  the  thing  that  is  in 
my  mind,  Alan  MacAlasdair.  It  is  not  for 
me  to  be  saying  that  thing.  But  if  you  have 
no  knowledge  of  the  Herdsman,  sure  it  is 
only  another  wonder  of  the  wonders,  and  God 
has  the  sun  on  that  shadow,  to  the  Stones  be 
it  said." 

"But  tell  me,  Morag,  who  is  the  Herds- 
man of  whom  you  speak?  " 

For  a  minute  or  more  the  woman  stood 
regarding  him  intently.  Then  slowly,  and 
as  with  difficulty,  she  spoke: 

"Why  have   you   appeared   to   the  people 


At  the  Edge  of  the  Shadow         187 

upon  the  isle,  sometimes  by  moonlight,  some- 
times by  day  or  in  the  dusk?  and  have  fore- 
told upon  one  and  all  who  dwell  here  black 
gloom  and  the  red  flame  of  sorrow? — Why 
have  you,  who  are  an  outcast  because  of 
what  lies  between  you  and  another,  pretended 
to  be  an  emissary  of  the  Son — ay,  for  sure, 
even,  God  forgive  you,  to  be  the  Son  him- 
self?" 

Alan  stared  at  the  woman  in  blank  amaze. 
For  a  time  he  could  utter  no  word.  Had 
some  extraordinary  delusion  spread  among 
the  islanders,  and  was  there  in  the  insane  accu- 
sation of  this  woman  the  secret  of  that  inex- 
plicable aversion  which  had  so  troubled  him? 

"This  is  all  an  empty  darkness  to  me, 
Morag.  Speak  more  plainly,  woman.  What 
is  all  this  madness  that  you  say?  When  have 
I  uttered  aught  of  having  any  mission,  or  of 
being  other  than  I  am?  When  have  I  foretold 
evil  upon  you  or  yours,  or  upon  the  isles 
beyond?  What  man  has  ever  dared  to  say 
that  Alan  MacAlasdair  of  Rona  is  an  outcast? 
and  what  sin  is  it  that  lies  between  me  and 
another  of  which  you  know? " 


1 88  Green  Fire 

It  was  impossible  for  Morag  MacNeill  to 
doubt  the  sincerity  of  the  man  who  spoke  to  her. 
She  crossed  herself,  and  muttered  the  words  of 
a  sian  for  the  protection  of  the  soul  against  the 
demon  powers.  Still,  even  while  she  believed 
in  Alan's  sincerity,  she  could  not  reconcile  it 
with  that  terrible  and  strange  mystery  with 
which  rumor  had  filled  her  ears.  So,  having 
nothing  to  say  in  reply  to  his  eager  questions, 
she  cast  down  her  eyes  and  kept  silence. 

"Speak,  Morag,  for  Heaven's  sake!  Speak 
if  you  are  a  true  woman;  you  that  see  a  man 
in  sore  pain,  in  pain,  too,  for  that  of  which  he 
knows  nothing,  and  of  the  ill  of  which  he  is 
guiltless!  " 

But,  keeping  her  face  averted,  the  woman 
muttered  simply:  "I  have  no  more  to  say." 
With  that  she  turned  and  moved  slowly  along 
the  pathway  which  led  from  the  pool  to  her 
hillside  bothie. 

With  a  sigh,  Alan  turned  and  moved  across 
the  moor.  What  wonder,  he  thought,  that 
deep  gloom  had  been  upon  him  that  day? 
Here,  in  the  woman's  mysterious  words,  was 
the  shadow  of  that  shadow. 


At  the  Edge  of  the  Shadow         189 

Slowly,  brooding  deep  over  what  he  had 
heard,  he  traversed  the  Mona-nan-Con,  as 
the  hill-tract  there  was  called,  till  he  came 
to  the  rocky  wilderness  known  as  the  Slope 
of  the  Caverns. 

There  for  a  time  he  leaned  against  a  high 
bowlder,  idly  watching  a  few  sheep  nibbling 
the  short  grass  which  grew  about  the  aper- 
tures of  some  of  the  many  caves  which  dis- 
closed themselves  in  all  directions.  Below 
and  beyond,  he  saw  the  illimitable  calm 
beauty  of  the  scene;  southward  with  no  break 
anywhere;  eastward,  a  sun-blaze  void;  south- 
westward,  the  faint,  blue  film  of  the  coast  of 
Ulster;  westward,  the  same  immeasurable 
windless  expanse.  From  where  he  stood  he 
could  just  hear  the  murmur  of  the  surge 
whispering  all  round  the  isle;  the  surge  that, 
even  on  days  of  profoundest  calm,  makes  a 
murmurous  rumor  among  the  rocks  and 
shingle  of  the  island  shores.  Not  upon  the 
moor  side,  but  in  the  blank  hollows  of  the 
caves  around  him  he  heard,  as  in  gigantic 
shells,  the  moving  of  a  strange  and  solemn 
rhythm:  wave  haunted-shells  indeed,  for  the 


190  Green  Fire 

echo  that  was  bruited  from  one  to  the  other 
came  from  beneath,  from  out  of  those 
labyrinthine  corridors  and  dim,  shadowy 
arcades,  where  through  the  intense  green 
glooms  the  Atlantic  waters  lose  themselves 
in  a  vain  wandering. 

For  long  he  leaned  there,  revolving  in  his 
mind  the  mystery  of  Morag  MacNeill's  words. 
Then,  abruptly,  the  stillness  was  broken  by 
the  sound  of  a  dislodged  stone.  So  little  did 
he  expect  the  foot  of  a  fellow  that  he  did  not 
turn  at  what  he  thought  to  be  the  slip  of  a 
sheep.  But  when  upon  the  slope  of  the  grass, 
just  beyond  where  he  stood,  a  dusky  blue 
shadow  wavered  fantastically,  he  swung  round 
with  a  sudden  instinct  of  dread. 

And  this  was  the  dread  which,  at  the  end  of 
the  third  month  after  he  and  Ynys  had  come 
to  Rona,  was  upon  Alan  Carmichael. 

For  there,  standing  quietly  by  another 
bowlder,  at  the  mouth  of  another  cave,  stood 
a  man  who  was  in  all  appearance  identical 
with  himself.  Looking  at  this  apparition,  he 
beheld  one  of  the  same  height  as  himself,  with 
hair  of  the  same  hue,  with  eyes  the  same,  and 


At  the  Edge  of  the  Shadow         191 

features  the  same,  with  the  same  carriage,  the 
same  smile,  even  the  same  expression.  No,  it 
was  there,  and  there  alone,  that  a  difference 
was. 

Sick  at  heart,  Alan  wondered  if  he  looked 
upon  his  own  wraith.  Familiar  as  he  was  with 
the  legends  of  his  people,  it  would  be  no 
strange  thing  to  him  that  there,  upon  the  hill- 
side, should  appear  the  phantasm  of  himself. 
Had  not  old  Ian  Maclain — and  that,  too, 
though  far  away  in  a  strange  land — seen 
the  death  of  Lois  Macdonald  moving  upward 
from  her  feet  to  her  knees,  from  her  knees  to 
her  waist,  from  her  waist  to  her  neck  and, 
just  before  the  end,  how  the  shroud  darkened 
along  the  face  until  it  hid  the  eyes?  Had  he 
not  often  heard  from  her,  from  Ian,  of  the 
second  self  which  so  often  appears  beside  the 
living  when  already  the  shadow  of  doom  is 
upon  him  whose  hours  are  numbered?  Was 
this,  then,  the  reason  of  what  had  been  his 
inexplicable  gloom?  Was  he  indeed  at  the 
extreme  of  life;  was  his  soul  amid  shallows, 
already  a  rock  upon  a  blank,  inhospitable 
shore?  If  not,  who  or  what  was  this  second 


192  Green  Fire 

self  which  leaned  there  negligently;  looking 
at  him  with  scornfully  smiling  lips,  but  with 
intent,  unsmiling  eyes. 

Then,  slowly,  there  came  into  his  mind 
this  thought:  How  could  a  phantom,  that  was 
itself  intangible,  throw  a  shadow  upon  the 
grass,  as  though  it  were  a  living  corporeal 
being?  Sure,  a  shadow  there  was  indeed.  It 
lay  between  the  apparition  and  himself.  A 
story  heard  in  boyhood  came  back  to  him; 
instinctively  he  stooped  and  lifted  a  stone 
and  flung  it  midway  into  the  shadow. 

"Go  back  into  the  darkness,"  he  cried, 
"if  out  of  the  darkness  you  came;  but, 
if  you  be  a  living  thing,  put  out  your 
hands! " 

The  shadow  remained  motionless;  though 
when  Alan  looked  again  at  his  second  self,  he 
saw  that  the  scorn  which  had  been  upon  the 
lips  was  now  in  the  eyes  also.  Ay,  for  sure, 
that  was  scornful  laughter  that  lay  in  those 
cold  wells  of  light.  No  phantom  that;  a  man 
he,  even  as  Alan  himself.  His  heart  pulsed 
like  that  of  a  trapped  bird,  but,  even  in  the 
speaking,  his  courage  came  back  to  him. 


At  the  Edge  of  the  Shadow         193 

' '  Who  are  you? "  he  asked  in  a  low  voice  that 
was  strange  even  in  his  own  ears. 

"Am  Buchaille,"  replied  the  man  in  a  voice 
as  low  and  strange.  "  I  am  the  Herdsman." 

A  new  tide  of  fear  surged  in  upon  Alan. 
That  voice,  was  it  not  his  own;  that  tone, 
was  it  not  familiar  in  his  ears?  When  the 
man  spoke,  he  heard  himself  speak;  sure,  if 
he  were  am  Buchaille  Ban,  Alan,  too,  was 
the  Herdsman — though  what  fantastic  destiny 
might  be  his  was  all  unknown  to  him. 

"Come  near,"  said  the  man,  and  now 
the  mocking  light  in  his  eyes  was  lambent  as 
cloud-fire — "come  near,  oh,  Buchaille  Ban!" 

With  a  swift  movement  Alan  leapt  forward, 
but  as  he  leaped  his  foot  caught  in  a  spray 
of  heather  and  he  stumbled  and  nigh  fell. 
When  he  recovered  himself,  he  looked  in 
vain  for  the  man  who  had  called  him.  There 
was  not  a  sign,  not  a  trace  of  any  living 
being.  For  the  first  few  moments  he  believed 
it  had  all  been  a  delusion.  Mortal  being  did 
not  appear  and  vanish  in  that  ghostly  way. 
Still,  surely  he  could  not  have  mistaken  the 
blank  of  that  place  for  a  speaking  voice,  nor 
13 


i94  Green  Fire 

out  of  nothingness  have  fashioned  the  living 
phantom  of  himself?  Or  could  he?  With 
that,  he  strode  forward  and  peered  into  the 
wide  arch  of  the  cavern  by  which  the  man 
had  stood.  He  could  not  see  far  into  it,  but 
so  far  as  it  was  possible  to  see,  he  discerned 
neither  man  nor  shadow  of  man,  nor  any  thing 
that  stirred;  no,  not  even  the  dust  of  a 
bearnan-Bride,  that  grew  on  a  patch  of  grass 
a  yard  or  two  within  the  darkness,  had  lost  one 
of  its  aerial  pinions.  He  drew  back,  dismayed, 
Then,  suddenly,  his  heart  leapt  again,  for, 
beyond  all  question,  all  possible  doubt,  there, 
in  the  bent  thyme,  just  where  the  man  had 
stood,  was  the  imprint  of  his  feet.  Even 
now  the  green  sprays  were  moving  forward. 


CHAPTER  XI 
MYSTERY 

AN  hour  passed,  and  Alan  Carmichael 
still  stood  by  the  entrance  to  the  cave.  So 
immovable  was  he  that  a  ewe,  listlessly  wan- 
dering there  in  search  of  cooler  grass,  lay 
down  after  a  while,  drowsily  regarding  him 
with  her  amber-colored  eyes.  All  his  thought 
was  intent  upon  the  mystery  of  what  he  had 
seen.  No  delusion  this,  he  was  sure.  That 
was  a  man  whom  he  had  seen.  It  might  well 
have  been  some  one  whom  he  did  not  know, 
though  that  were  unlikely,  of  course,  for  on 
so  small  an  island,  inhabited  by  less  than  a 
score  of  crofters,  it  was  scarcely  possible  for 
one  to  live  there  for  many  weeks  and  not 
know  the  name  and  face  of  every  soul  upon 
the  isle.  Still,  a  stranger  might  have  come. 
Only,  if  this  were  so,  why  should  he  call 
himself  the  Herdsman?  There  was  but  one 


196  Green  Fire 

herdsman  on  Rona,  and  he  Angus  MacCormic, 
who  lived  at  Einaval  on  the  north  side.  In 
these  outer  isles,  the  shepherd  and  the  herds- 
man are  appointed  by  the  community,  and  no 
man  is  allowed  to  be  one  or  the  other  at  will, 
any  more  than  to  be  maor  or  constabal.  Then, 
too,  if  this  man  were  indeed  herdsman,  where 
was  his  imir  ionailt,  his  browsing  tract? 
Looking  round  him,  Alan  could  perceive 
nowhere  any  fitting  pasture.  Surely  no 
herdsman  would  be  content  with  such  an 
imir  a  bhuchaille — rig  of  the  herdsman — as 
that  rocky  wilderness  where  the  soft  green 
grass  grew  in  patches  under  this  or  that 
bowlder,  on  the  sun  side  of  this  or  that 
mountain  ash.  Again,  he  had  given  no 
name,  but  called  himself  simply  Am  Buchaille. 
This  was  how  the  woman  Morag  had  spoken; 
did  she  indeed  mean  this  very  man,  and  if  so 
what  import  lay  in  her  words?  But  far 
beyond  all  other  bewilderment  for  him  was 
that  strange,  that  indeed  terrifying  likeness 
to  himself;  a  likeness  so  absolute,  so  con- 
vincing, that  he  knew  he  might  himself  easily 
have  been  deceived,  had  he  beheld  the 


Mystery  197 

apparition  in  any  place  where  it  was  possible 
that  a  reflection  could  have  misled  him. 

Brooding  thus,  eye  and  ear  were  both  intent 
for  the  faintest  sight  or  sound.  But,  from 
the  interior  of  the  cavern,  not  a  breath  came. 
Once,  from  among  the  jagged  rocks  high  on 
the  west  slope  of  Ben  Einaval  he  fancied  he 
heard  an  unwonted  sound:  that  of  human 
laughter,  but  laughter  so  wild,  so  remote,  so 
unmirthful,  that  fear  was  in  his  heart.  It 
could  not  be  other  than  imagination,  he  said 
to  himself;  for  in  that  lonely  place  there  was 
none  to  wander  idly  at  that  season,  and  none 
who,  wandering,  would  laugh  there,  solitary. 

It  was  with  an  effort  that  Alan  at  last 
determined  to  probe  the  mystery.  Stooping, 
he  moved  cautiously  into  the  cavern,  and 
groped  his  way  along  a  narrow  ledge  which 
led,  as  he  thought,  into  another  larger  cave. 
But  this  proved  to  be  one  of  the  innumerable 
hollow  corridors  which  intersect  the  honey- 
combed slopes  of  this  Isle  of  Caves.  To 
wander  far  in  these  lightless  passages  would 
be  to  court  inevitable  death.  Long  ago,  the 
piper  whom  the  Prionnsa-Ban,  the  Fair 


198  Green  Fire 

Prince,  loved  to  hear  in  his  exile, — he  that  was 
called  Rory  McVurich, — penetrated  one  of  the 
larger  hollows  to  seek  there  for  a  child  that 
had  idly  wandered  into  the  dark.  Some  of 
the  clansmen,  with  the  father  and  mother  of 
the  little  one,  waited  at  the  entrance  to  the 
cave.  For  a  time  there  was  silence;  then,  as 
agreed  upon,  the  sound  of  the  pipes  was 
heard,  to  which  a  man  named  Lachlan  Mc- 
Lachlan  replied  from  the  outer  air.  The 
skirl  of  the  pipes  within  grew  fainter  and 
fainter.  Louder  and  louder  Lachlan  played 
upon  his  chantar ;  shriller  and  shriller  grew 
the  wild  cry  of  the  feadan ;  but  for  all  that, 
fainter  and  fainter  waned  the  sound  of  the 
pipes  of  Rory  McVurich.  Generations  have 
come  and  gone  upon  the  isle,  and  still  no  man 
has  heard  the  returning  air  which  Rory  was 
to  play.  He  may  have  found  the  little  child, 
but  he  never  found  his  backward  path,  and  in 
the  gloom  of  that  honeycombed  hill  he  and 
the  child  and  the  music  of  the  pipes  lapsed 
into  the  same  stillness.  Remembering  this 
legend,  familiar  to  him  since  his  boyhood, 
Alan  did  not  dare  to  venture  farther.  At  any 


Mystery  199 

moment,  too,  he  knew  he  might  fall  into  one 
of  the  innumerable  crevices  which  opened  into 
the  sea-corridors  hundreds  of  feet  below. 
Ancient  rumor  had  it  that  there  were  mysteri- 
ous passages  from  the  upper  heights  of  Ben 
Einaval,  which  led  into  the  intricate  heart 
mazes  of  these  perilous  arcades.  But  for 
a  time  he  lay  still,  straining  every  sense.  Con- 
vinced at  last  that  the  man  whom  he  sought 
had  evaded  all  possible  quest,  he  turned 
to  regain  the  light.  Brief  way  as  he  had 
gone,  this  was  no  easy  thing  to  do.  For  a 
few  moments,  indeed,  Alan  lost  his  self-pos- 
session, when  he  found  a  uniform  dusk  about 
him,  and  could  scarce  discern  which  of  the 
several  branching  narrow  corridors  was  that 
by  which  he  had  come.  But  following  the 
greener  light,  he  reached  the  cave,  and  soon, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  was  upon  the  sun-sweet 
warm  earth  again. 

How  more  than  ever  beautiful  the  world 
seemed  to  him;  how  sweet  upon  the  eyes 
were  cliff  and  precipice,  the  wide  stretch  of 
ocean,  the  flying  birds,  the  sheep  grazing  on 
the  scanty  pastures,  and,  above  all,  the 


200  Green   Fire 

homely  blue  smoke  curling  faintly  upward 
from  the  fisher  crofts  on  the  headland  east  of 
Aonaig! 

Purposely  he  retraced  his  steps  by  the  way 
of  the  glen.  He  would  see  the  woman, 
Morag  MacNeill  again,  and  insist  on  some 
more  explicit  word;  but  when  he  reached  the 
burnside  once  more,  the  woman  was  not 
there.  Possibly  she  had  seen  him  coming, 
and  guessed  his  purpose;  half  he  surmised 
this,  for  the  peats  in  the  hearth  were  brightly 
aglow,  and  on  the  hob  beside  them  the  boiling 
water  hissed  in  a  great  iron  pot  wherein  were 
potatoes.  In  vain  he  sought,  in  vain  called. 
Impatient  at  last  he  walked  around  the  bothie 
and  into  the  little  byre  beyond.  The 
place  seemed  deserted.  The  matter,  small 
as  it  was,  added  to  his  profound  disquietude. 
Resolved  to  sift  the  mystery,  he  began  to 
walk  swiftly  down  the  slope.  By  the  old 
shealing  of  Cnoc-na-Monie,  now  forsaken,  his 
heart  leaped  at  sight  of  Ynys  coming  to 
meet  him.  At  first  he  thought  he  would  say 
nothing  of  what  had  happened.  But  with 
Ynys  his  was  ever  an  impossible  silence,  for 


Mystery  201 

she  knew  every  change  in  his  mind  as  a  seaman 
knows  the  look  of  the  sky  and  sea.  More- 
over, she  had  herself  been  all  day  oppressed 
by  something  of  the  same  inexplicable  appre- 
hension. 

When  they  met,  she  put  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders  and  looked  at  him  lovingly  with 
questioning  eyes.  Ah!  he  found  rest  and  hope 
in  those  deep  pools  of  quiet  light  whence  the 
dreaming  love  rose  comfortingly  to  meet  his 
own  yearning  gaze. 

"What  is  it,  Alan,  mo-ghray;  what  is  the 
trouble  that  is  upon  you?  " 

"  It  is  a  trouble,  Ynys,  but  one  of  which  I 
can  speak  little,  for  it  is  little  I  know." 

"  Have  you  heard  or  seen  aught  that  gives 
you  fear? " 

"  I  have  seen  a  man  here  upon  Rona  whom 
I  have  not  seen  or  met  before,  and  it  is  one 
whose  face  is  known  to  me,  and  whose  voice 
too,  and  one  whom  I  would  not  meet  again." 

"  Did  he  give  you  no  name,  Alan? " 

"None." 

<' Whence  did  he  come?  Whither  did 
he  go? " 


202  Green  Fire 

"  He  came  out  of  the  shadow,  and  into  the 
shadow  he  went." 

Ynys  looked  steadfastly  at  her  husband;  her 
wistful  gaze  searching  deep  into  his  unquiet 
eyes,  and  thence  from  feature  to  feature  of 
the  face  which  had  become  strangely  worn, 
for  all  the  joy  that  lay  between  them. 

But  she  said  no  more  upon  what  he  had 
told  her. 

"I,  too,  Alan  mo  run,  have  heard  a  strange 
thing  to-day.  You  know  old  Marsail  Macrae? 
She  is  ill  now  with  a  slow  fever,  and  she  thinks 
that  the  shadow  which  she  saw  lying  upon  her 
hearth  last  Sabbath,  when  nothing  was  there 
to  cause  any  shadow,  was  her  own  death, 
come  for  her,  and  now  waiting  there.  I  spoke 
to  the  old  woman  comfortingly,  but  she  would 
not  have  peace,  and  her  eyes  looked  at  me 
strangely. 

"  '  What  is  it,  Marsail? '  I  asked  at  last.  To 
which  she  replied  mysteriously: 

'"Ay,  ay,  for  sure,  it  was  I  who  saw  you 
first.' 

"  '  Saw  me  first,  Marsail? ' 

"  '  Ay,  you  and  Alan  MacAlasdair. ' 


Mystery  203 

"  '  When  and  where  was  this  sight  upon  you 
that  you  speak  of? ' 

"  '  It  was  one  month  before  you  and  he 
came  to  Rona.' 

"This  startled  me,  and  I  asked  her  to  tell 
me  her  meaning.  At  first,  I  could  make  little 
of  what  was  said,  for  she  muttered  low,  and 
moved  her  head  idly  this  way  and  that;  moan- 
ing in  her  pain.  But  on  my  taking  her  hand, 
she  looked  at  me  again;  and  then,  apparently 
without  an  effort,  told  me  this  thing: 

"  '  On  the  seventh  day  of  the  month  before 
you  came — and  by  the  same  token  it  was  on 
the  seventh  day  of  the  month  following  that 
you  and  Alan  MacAlasdair  came  to  Caisteal- 
Rhona — I  was  upon  the  shore  at  Aonaig,  listen- 
ing to  the  crying  of  the  wind  against  the  great 
precipice  of  Biolacreag.  With  me  were  Rod- 
erick Macrea  and  Neil  MacNeill,  Morag  Mac- 
Neill,  and  her  sister  Elsa;  and  we  were  singing 
the  hymn  for  those  who  were  out  on  the  wild 
sea  that  was  roaring  white  against  the  cliffs  of 
Berneray;  for  some  of  our  people  were  there, 
and  we  feared  for  them.  Sometimes  one  sang, 


204  Green  Fire 

and  sometimes  another.  And  sure,  it  is  re- 
membering I  am,  how,  when  I  had  called  out 
with  my  old  wailing  voice: 

"  '  Boidh  an  Tri-aon  leinn,  a  la  's  a  dh-oidche  ; 
'S  air  chul  nan  tonn,  no  air  thaobh  nain  beann. 

[Be  the  Three-in-One  with  us  day  and  night ; 
On  the  crested  wave,  when  waves  run  high.] 

"  '  I  had  just  sung  this,  and  we  were  all 
listening  to  the  sound  of  it  caught  by  the  wind 
and  whirled  up  against  the  black  face  of  Biola- 
creag,  when  suddenly  I  saw  a  boat  come  sail- 
ing quite  into  the  haven.  I  called  out  to 
those  about  me,  but  they  looked  at  me  with 
white  faces,  for  no  boat  was  there,  and  it  was 
a  rough,  wild  sea  it  was  in  that  haven. 

"  '  And  in  that  boat  I  saw  three  people  sit- 
ting, and  one  was  you,  Ynys  nighean  Lhois, 
and  one  was  Alan  MacAlasdair,  and  one  was  a 
man  who  had  his  face  in  shadow,  and  his  eyes 
looked  into  the  shadow  at  his  feet.  I  knew 
not  who  you  were,  nor  whence  you  came,  nor 
whether  it  was  for  Rona  you  were,  nor  any 
thing  at  all;  but  I  saw  you  clear,  and  I  told 
those  about  me  what  I  saw.  And  Seumas  Mac- 
Neill,  him  that  is  dead  now,  and  brother  to 


Mystery  205 

Neil  here  at  Aonaig,  he  said  to  me,  "Who 
was  that  whom  you  saw  walking  in  the  dusk 
the  night  before  last?"  "Alasdair  MacAlas- 
dair  Carmichael,"  answered  one  at  that. 
Seumas  muttered,  looking  at  those  about  him, 
"Mark  what  I  say,  for  it  is  a  true  thing;  that 
Alasdair  Carmichael  of  Rona  is  dead  now,  be- 
cause Marsail  here  saw  him  walking  in  the 
dusk  when  he  was  not  upon  the  island;  and 
now,  you  Neil,  and  you  Roderick,  and  all  of 
you  will  be  for  thinking  with  me  that  the  man 
and  the  woman  in  the  boat  whom  Marsail  sees 
now  will  be  the  son  and  the  daughter  of  him 
who  has  changed." 

"  'Well,  well,  it  is  a  true  thing  that  we  each 
of  us  thought  that  thought,  but  when  the 
days  went  and  nothing  more  came  of  it,  the 
memory  of  the  seeing  went  too.  Then  there 
came  the  day  when  the  cobble  of  Aulay  Mac- 
Aulay  came  out  of  Borosay  into  Caisteal- 
Rhona  haven.  Glad  we  were  to  see  the  face 
of  Ian  mac  Iain  again,  and  to  hear  the  sob  of 
joy  coming  out  of  the  heart  of  Kirsten,  his 
sister:  but  when  you  and  Alan  MacAlasdair 
came  on  shore,  it  was  my  voice  that  then  went 


206  Green   Fire 

from  mouth  to  mouth,  for  I  whispered  to 
Morag  MacNeill  who  was  next  me,  that  you 
were  the  twain  that  I  had  seen  in  the  boat.' 

"Well,  Alan,"  Ynys  added,  with  a  grave 
smile,  "I  spoke  gently  to  old  Marsail,  and 
told  her  that  after  all  there  was  no  evil  in 
that  seeing,  and  that  for  sure  it  was  nothing 
at  all,  at  all,  to  see  two  people  in  a  boat,  and 
nothing  coming  of  that,  save  happiness  for 
those  two,  and  glad  content  to  be  here,  with 
hope  like  a  white  swallow  nesting  for  aye 
under  the  eaves  of  our  house. 

"  Marsail  looked  at  me  with  big  eyes. 

"  '  It  is  no  white  swallow  that  builds  there, 
Ynys  Bean  Alan,'  she  said. 

"But  when  I  asked  her  what  she  meant  by 
that,  she  would  say  no  more.  No  asking  of 
mine  would  bring  the  word  to  her  lips;  only 
she  shook  her  head  and  averted  her  gaze  from 
my  face.  Then,  seeing  that  it  was  useless,  I 
said  to  her: 

"'Marsail,  tell  me  this:  was  that  sight  of 
yours  the  sole  thing  that  made  the  people  here 
on  Rona  look  askance  at  Alan  MacAlasdair?' 


Mystery  207 

"For  a  time  she  stared  at  me  with  the  dim, 
unrecognizing  eyes  of  those  who  are  ill  and 
in  the  shadow  of  death;  then,  suddenly  they 
brightened,  and  she  spoke: 

"  'It  is  not  all.' 

"'Then  what  more  is  there,  Marsail 
Macrae? ' 

"'That  is  not  for  the  saying.  I  have  no 
more  to  say.  Let  you,  or  your  man,  go  else- 
where; that  which  is  to  be,  will  be.  To  each 
his  own  end.' 

"  '  Then  tell  me  this  at  least,'  I  asked;  'is 
there  peril  for  Alan  or  for  me  in  this  island?' 

"But  from  that  moment  Marsail  would  say 
no  more,  and  indeed  I  saw  that  a  swoon  was 
upon  the  old  woman,  and  that  she  heard  not 
or  saw  not." 

After  this,  Ynys  and  Alan  walked  slowly 
home  together,  hand  in  hand,  both  silent  and 
revolving  in  their  mind  as  in  a  dim  dusk,  that 
mystery  which,  vague  and  unreal  at  first,  had 
now  become  a  living  presence,  and  haunted 
them  by  day  and  night. 


CHAPTER  XII 
IN    THE   GREEN    ARCADES 

"!N  the  shadow  of  pain,  one  may  hear  the 
footsteps  of  joy."  So  runs  a  proverb  of 
old. 

It  was  a  true  saying  for  Alan  and  Ynys. 
That  night  they  lay  down  in  pain,  their  hearts 
heavy  with  the  weight  of  some  burden  which 
they  felt  and  did  not  know.  On  the  morrow 
they  woke  to  the  rapture  of  a  new  day — a  day 
of  absolute  beauty,  when  the  stars  grew  pale 
in  the  cloudless  blue  sky  before  the  uprising 
of  the  sun,  while  the  last  vapor  lifted  a  white 
wing  from  the  sea,  and  a  dim  spiral  mist  carried 
skyward  the  memory  of  inland  dews.  The 
whole  wide  wilderness  of  ocean  was  of  living 
azure,  aflame  with  gold  and  silver.  Around 
the  promontories  of  the  isles  the  brown-sailed 
fish-boats  of  Barra  and  Berneray,  of  Borosay 
and  Seila,  moved  blithely  hither  and  thither. 


In  the  Green   Arcades  209 

Everywhere  the  rhythm  of  life  pulsed  swift 
and  strong.  The  first  sound  which  had  awa- 
kened the  sleepers  was  of  a  loud  singing  of 
fishermen  who  were  putting  out  from  Aonaig. 
The  coming  of  a  great  shoal  of  mackerel  had 
been  signalled,  and  every  man  and  woman  of 
the  near  isles  was  alert  for  the  take.  The 
first  sign  had  been  the  swift  congregation  of 
birds,  particularly  the  gannets  and  skuas. 
And  as  the  men  pulled  at  the  oars,  or  hoisted 
the  brown  sails,  they  sang  a  snatch  of  an  old- 
world  tune,  wont  to  be  chanted  at  the  first 
coming  of  the  birds  when  spring-tide  is  on  the 
flow  again. 

"  Bui'  cheas  dha  'n  Ti  thaine  na  Gugachan 
Thaine  's  na  h-Eoin-Mhora  cuideriu, 
Cailin  dugh  ciaru  bo  's  a  chro! 
Bo  dhonn!  bo  dhonn!  bo  dhonn  bheadarrach! 
Bo  dhonn  a  ruin  a  bhlitheadh  am  baine  dhuit 
Ho  ro!  mo  gheallag!  ni  gu  rodagach! 
Cailin  dugh  ciaru  bo  's  a  chro — 
Na  h-eoin  air  tighinn!  cluinneam  an  ceol! " 

[Thanks  to  the  Being,  the  Gannets  have  come, 
Yes!  and  the  Great  Auks  along  with  them. 
Dark-haired  girl! — a  cow  in  the  fold! 
14 


2io  Green  Fire 

Brown  cow!  brown  cow!  brown  cow,  beloved  ho! 
Brown  cow!  my  love!  the  milker  of  milk  to  thee! 
Ho  ro!  my  fair-skinned  girl — a  cow  in  the  fold, 
And  the  birds  have  come! — glad  sight,  I  see!] 

Eager  to  be  of  help,  Alan  put  off  in  his  boat 
and  was  soon  among  the  fishermen,  who  in 
their  new  excitement  were  forgetful  of  all  else 
than  that  the  mackerel  were  come,  and  that 
every  moment  was  precious.  For  the  first 
time  Alan  found  himself  no  unwelcome  com- 
rade. Was  it,  he  wondered,  because  that, 
there  upon  the  sea,  whatever  of  shadow 
dwelled  about  him  on  the  land  was  no  longer 
visible? 

All  through  that  golden  noon,  he  and  the 
others  worked  hard.  From  isle  to  isle  went 
the  chorus  of  the  splashing  oars  and  splashing 
nets;  of  the  splashing  of  the  fish  and  the 
splashing  of  gannetsand  gulls;  of  the  splashing 
of  the  tide  leaping  blithely  against  the  sun- 
dazzle,  and  the  innumerous  rippling  wash 
moving  out  of  the  west — all  this  blent  with 
the  loud,  joyous  cries,  the  laughter,  and  the 
hoarse  shouts  of  the  men  of  Barra  and  the  ad- 
jacent islands.  It  was  close  upon  dusk  before 


In  the  Green  Arcades  211 

the  Rona  boats  put  into  the  haven  of  Aonaig 
again;  and  by  that  time  none  was  blither  than 
Alan  Carmichael,  who  in  that  day  of  happy 
toil  had  lost  all  the  gloom  and  apprehension 
of  the  day  before,  and  now  made  haste  to 
Caisteal-Rhona  to  add  to  his  joy  by  a  sight  of 
Ynys  in  their  home. 

When,  however,  he  got  there,  there  was  no 
Ynys  to  see.  "She  had  gone,"  said  Kirsten 
Macdonald,  "she  had  gone  out  in  the  smaller 
boat  midway  in  the  afternoon,  and  had  sailed 
around  to  Aoidhu,  the  great  scaur  which  ran 
out  beyond  the  precipices  at  the  south-west  of 
Rona." 

This  Ynys  often  did;  and,  of  late,  more  and 
more  often.  Ever  since  she  had  come  to  the 
Hebrid  Isles,  her  love  of  the  sea  had  deepened, 
and  had  grown  into  a  passion  for  its  mystery 
and  beauty.  Of  late,  too,  something  impelled 
to  a  more  frequent  isolation;  a  deep  longing 
to  be  where  no  eye  could  see,  and  no  ear 
hearken.  Those  strange  dreams  which,  in  a 
confused  way,  had  haunted  her  mind  in  her 
far  Breton  home,  came  oftener  now  and  more 
clear.  Sometimes,  when  she  had  sat  in  the 


212  Green  Fire 

twilight  at  Kerival,  holding  her  mother's  hand 
and  listening  to  tales  of  that  remote  North  to 
which  her  heart  had  ever  yearned,  she  had 
suddenly  lost  all  consciousness  of  the  speaker, 
or  of  the  things  said,  and  had  let  her  mind  be 
taken  captive  by  her  uncontrolled  imagination, 
till  in  spirit  she  was  far  away,  and  sojourned 
in  strange  places,  hearing  a  language  that  she 
did  not  know,  and  yet  which  she  understood, 
and  dwelt  in  a  past  or  a  present  which  she 
had  never  seen  and  which  yet  was  familiar. 

Since  Ynys  had  known  she  was  with  child, 
this  visionariness  had  been  intensified,  this 
longing  had  become  more  and  more  a  deep 
need.  Even  with  Alan  she  felt  at  times  the 
intrusion  of  an  alien  influence.  If  in  her 
body  was  a  mystery,  a  mystery  also  was  in 
her  brain  and  in  her  heart. 

Alan  knew  this,  and  knowing,  understood. 
It  was  for  gladness  to  him  that  Ynys  should 
do  as  she  would;  that  in  these  long  hours  of 
solitude  she  drank  deep  of  the  elixir  of  peace; 
and  that  this  way  of  happiness  was  open  to  her 
as  to  him.  Never  did  these  isolations  come 
between  them;  indeed  they  were  sometimes 


In  the  Green  Arcades  213 

more  atone  then  than  when  they  were  together, 
for  all  the  deep  happiness  which  sustained  both 
upon  the  strong  waters  of  their  love. 

So,  when  Alan  heard  from  Kirsten  that 
Ynys  had  sailed  westward,  he  was  in  no  way 
alarmed.  But  when  the  sun  had  set,  and  over 
the  faint  blue  film  of  the  Isle  of  Tiree  the 
moon  had  risen,  and  still  no  sign  of  Ynys,  he 
became  restless  and  uneasy.  Kirsten  begged 
him  in  vain  to  eat  of  the  supper  she  had  pre- 
pared. Idly  he  moved  to  and  fro  along  the 
rocky  ledge,  or  down  by  the  pebbly  shore,  or 
across  the  green  airidh;  eager  for  a  glimpse 
of  her  whom  he  loved  so  passing  well. 

At  last,  unable  longer  to  endure  a  growing 
anxiety,  he  put  out  in  his  boat,  and  sailed 
swiftly  before  the  slight  easterly  breeze  which 
had  prevailed  since  moonrise.  So  far  as 
Aoidhu,  all  the  way  from  Aonaig,  there  was 
not  a  haven  anywhere,  nor  even  one  of  the 
sea  caverns  which  honeycombed  the  isle 
beyond  the  headland.  A  glance,  therefore, 
showed  him  that  Ynys  had  not  yet  come 
back  that  way.  It  was  possible,  though  un- 
likely, that  she  had  sailed  right  round  Rona; 


214  Green  Fire 

unlikely  because  in  the  narrow  straits  to  the 
north,  between  Rona  and  the  scattered  islets 
known  as  the  Innse-mhara,  strong  currents 
prevailed,  and  particularly  at  the  full  of  the 
tide,  when  they  swept  north-eastward,  dark 
and  swift  as  a  mill-race. 

Once  the  headland  was  passed  and  the  sheer 
precipitous  westward  cliffs  loomed  black  out 
of  the  sea,  he  became  more  and  more  uneasy. 
As  yet,  there  was  no  danger;  but  he  saw  that 
a  swell  was  moving  out  of  the  west,  and  when- 
ever the  wind  blew  that  way  the  sea  arcades 
were  filled  with  a  lifting,  perilous  wave,  and 
escape  from  them  was  difficult  and  often 
impossible.  Out  of  the  score  or  more  great 
corridors  which  opened  between  Aoidhu 
and  Ardgorm,  it  was  difficult  to  know  into 
which  to  hazard  entry  in  quest  of  Ynys. 
Together  they  had  examined  all  of  them. 
Some  twisted  but  slightly;  others  wound 
sinuously  till  the  green,  serpentine  alleys, 
flanked  by  basalt  walls  hundreds  of  feet  high, 
lost  themselves  in  an  indistinguishable  maze. 

But  that  which  was  safest,  and  wherein  a 
boat  could  most  easily  make  its  way  against 


In  the  Green  Arcades  215 

wind  or  tide,  was  the  huge,  cavernous  corridor 
known  locally  as  the  Uamh-nan-roin,  the  Cave 
of  the  Seals. 

For  this  opening  Alan  steered  his  boat. 
Soon  he  was  within  the  wide  corridor.  Like 
the  great  cave  at  Staffa,  it  was  wrought  as 
an  aisle  in  some  natural  cathedral;  the  rocks, 
too,  were  fluted  columnarly  and  rose  in  flaw- 
less symmetry  as  though  graven  by  the  hand 
of  man.  At  the  far  end  of  this  gigantic  aisle, 
there  diverges  a  long,  narrow  arcade,  filled  by 
day  with  the  green  shine  of  the  water,  and 
by  night,  when  the  moon  is  up,  with  a  pale 
froth  of  light.  It  is  one  of  the  few  where 
there,  are  open  gateways  for  the  sea  and 
the  wandering  light,  and,  by  its  spherical 
shape,  almost  the  only  safe  passage  in  a  sea- 
son of  heavy  wind.  Half-way  along  this 
arched  arcade  a  corridor  leads  to  a  round 
cup-like  cavern,  midway  in  which  stands  a 
huge  mass  of  black  basalt,  in  shape  suggest- 
ive of  a  titanic  altar.  Thus  it  must  have 
impressed  the  imagination  of  the  islanders 
of  old,  for  by  them,  even  in  a  remote 
day,  it  was  called  Teampull-nan-Mhara,  the 


2i6  Green  Fire 

Temple  of  the  Sea.  Owing  to  the  narrow- 
ness of  the  corridor,  and  to  the  smooth, 
unbroken  walls  which  rise  sheer  from  the 
green  depths  into  an  invisible  darkness,  the 
Strait  of  the  Temple  is  not  one  wherein  to 
linger  long,  save  in  a  time  of  calm. 

Instinctively,  however,  Alan  quietly  headed 
his  boat  along  this  narrow  way.  When, 
silently,  he  emerged  from  the  arcade,  he 
could  just  discern  the  mass  of  basalt  at  the 
far  end  of  the  cavern.  But  there,  seated  in 
her  boat,  was  Ynys;  apparently  idly  adrift, 
for  one  oar  floated  in  the  water  alongside,  and 
the  other  suspended  listlessly  from  the  tholes. 

His  heart  had  a  suffocating  grip  as  he  saw 
her  whom  he  had  come  to  seek.  Why  that 
absolute  stillness,  that  strange,  listless  indif- 
ference? For  a  dreadful  moment  he  feared 
that  death  had  indeed  come  to  her  in  that 
lonely  place  where,  as  an  ancient  legend  had 
it,  a  woman  of  old  time  had  perished,  and 
ever  since  had  wrought  death  upon  any  who 
came  thither  solitary  and  unhappy. 

But  at  the  striking  of  the  shaft  of  his  oar 
against  a  ledge,  Ynys  gave  a  low  cry  and 


In  the  Green  Arcades  217 

looked  at  him  with  startled  eyes.  Half  rising 
from  where  she  crouched  in  the  stern,  she 
called  to  him  in  a  voice  that  had  in  it  some- 
thing strangely  unfamiliar. 

"I  will  not  hear!  "  she  cried.  "I  will  not 
hear!  Leave  me!  Leave  me!" 

Fearing  that  the  desolation  of  the  place 
had  wrought  upon  her  mind,  Alan  swiftly 
moved  toward  her.  The  very  next  moment 
his  boat  glided  along  hers.  Stepping  from 
the  one  to  the  other,  he  kneeled  be- 
side her. 

"  Ynys-ghaolaiche,  Ynys,  my  darling,  what 
is  it?  what  gives  you  dread?  There  is  no 
harm  here.  All  is  well.  Look!  See,  it  is  I, 
Alan;  Alan,  whom  you  love!  Listen,  dear; 
do  you  not  know  me;  do  you  not  know 
who  I  am?  It  is  I,  Alan;  Alan  who  loves 
you! " 

Even  in  that  obscure  light  he  could  clearly 
discern  her  pale  face,  and  his  heart  smote 
him  as  he  saw  her  eyes  turn  upon  him  with  a 
glance  wild  and  mournful.  Had  she  indeed 
succumbed  to  the  sea  madness  which  ever  and 
again  strikes  into  a  terrible  melancholy  one 


2i 8  Green   Fire 

here  and  there  among  those  who  dwell  in  the 
remote  isles?  But  even  as  he  looked,  he 
noted  another  expression  come  into  the 
beautiful  eyes,  and  almost  before  he  realized 
what  had  happened,  Ynys's  head  was  on  his 
breast,  and  she  sobbing  with  a  sudden  glad- 
ness and  passion  of  relief. 

The  dusk  deepened  swiftly.  In  those 
serpentine  arcades  darkness  grows  from  hour 
to  hour,  even  on  nights  when  the  moon  makes 
the  outer  sea  a  blaze  of  silver  fire.  But 
sweet  it  was  to  lie  there  in  that  solitary  place, 
where  no  sound  penetrated  save  the  low, 
soughing  sigh  of  ocean,  audible  there  only 
as  the  breath  of  a  sleeper:  to  lie  there 
in  each  other's  arms,  and  to  feel  the  beat- 
ing of  heart  against  heart,  knowing  that 
whether  in  the  hazard  of  life  or  death,  all 
was  well,  since  they  two  were  there  and 
together. 

For  long  Ynys  could  say  no  word.  And  as 
for  Alan — too  glad  was  he  to  have  her  again, 
to  know  that  she  lived  indeed,  and  that  his 
fear  of  the  sea  madness  was  an  idle  fantasy; 
too  glad  was  he  to  urge  her  to  speak,  when 


In  the  Green  Arcades  219 

her  recovered  joy  was  still  sweet  in  her  heart. 
But  at  last  she  whispered  to  him  how  that 
she  had  sailed  westward  from  Caisteal-Rhona, 
having  been  overcome  by  the  beauty  of  the 
day,  and  longing  to  be  among  those  mysteri- 
ous green  arcades  where  thought  rose  out  of 
the  mind  like  a  white  bird  and  flew  among 
shadows  in  strange  places,  bringing  back  with 
it  upon  its  silent  wings  the  rumor  of  strange 
voices,  and  oftentimes  singing  a  song  of  what 
ears  hear  not.  Deeply  upon  the  two  had  lain 
the  thought  of  what  was  to  be;  the  thought 
of  the  life  she  bore  within  her,  that  was  the 
tangible  love  of  her  and  of  Alan,  and  yet  was 
so  strangely  and  remotely  dissociate  from 
either.  Happy  in  happy  thoughts,  and 
strangely  wrought  by  vague  imaginings,  she 
had  sailed  past  precipice  after  precipice,  and 
so  at  last  into  the  Strait  of  the  Temple.  Just 
before  the  last  light  of  day  had  begun  to  glide 
out  of  the  pale  green  water,  she  had  let  her 
boat  drift  idly  alongside  the  Teampull-Mhara. 
There,  for  a  while,  she  had  lain,  drowsily  con- 
tent, dreaming  her  dream.  Then,  suddenly 
her  heart  had  given  a  leap  like  a  doe  in  the 


220  Green  Fire 

bracken,  and  the  pulses  in  her  veins  swung 
like  stars  on  a  night  of  storm. 

For  there,  in  that  nigh  unreachable  and 
forever  unvisited  solitude  was  the  figure  of  a 
man.  He  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  huge 
basalt  altar,  and  appeared  to  have  sprung  from 
out  the  rock,  or,  himself  a  shadowy  pres- 
ence, to  have  grown  out  of  the  obscure  un- 
realities of  the  darkness.  She  had  stared  at 
him,  fascinated,  speechless. 

When  she  had  said  this  Ynys  stopped 
abruptly,  for  she  felt  the  trembling  of  Alan's 
hand. 

"Go  on,"  he  said  hoarsely,  "go  on.  Tell 
me  all!" 

To  his  amaze,  she  did  not  seem  perturbed 
in  the  way  he  had  dreaded  when  she  began  to 
tell  what  she  had  seen. 

"But  did  you  notice  nothing  about  him, 
Ynys  .  .  .  about  his  face,  his  features?" 

"  Yes.     His  eyes  filled  me  with  strange  joy." 

"  With  joy?  Oh,  Ynys!  Ynys!  do  you  know 
whom — what — it  was  you  saw?  It  was  a  vision, 
a  nothingness,  a  mere  phantom;  and  that 
phantom  was  .  .  .  was  .  .  .  myself! " 


In  the  Green  Arcades  221 

"You,  Alan!  Oh,  no,  Alan-aghray!  dear, 
you  do  not  know  whom  I  saw — nor  do  I, 
though  I  know  it  was  not  you!  " 

"We  will  talk  of  this  later,  my  fawn,"  Alan 
muttered.  "  Meanwhile,  hold  on  to  this 
ledge,  for  I  wish  to  examine  this  mass  of  rock 
that  they  call  the  Altar." 

With  a  spring  he  was  on  the  ledge.  Then, 
swift  and  sure  as  a  wild-cat,  he  scaled  the 
huge  bowlder. 

Nothing;  no  one!  There  was  not  a  trace 
of  any  human  being.  Not  a  bird,  not  a  bat; 
nothing.  Moreover,  even  in  that  slowly 
blackening  darkness  he  could  see  that  there 
was  no  direct  connection  between  the  summit 
or  side  with  the  blank,  precipitous  wall  of 
basalt  beyond.  Overhead  there  was,  so  far  as 
he  could  discern,  a  vault.  No  human  being 
could  have  descended  through  that  perilous 
gulf. 

Was  the  island  haunted?  he  wondered,  as 
slowly  he  made  his  way  back  to  the  boat.  Or 
had  he  been  startled  into  some  wild  fantasy, 
and  imagined  a  likeness  where  none  had  been? 
Perhaps,  even,  he  had  not  really  seen  any  one. 


222  Green  Fire 

He  had  read  of  similar  strange  delusions. 
The  nerves  can  soon  chase  the  mind  into  the 
dark  zone  wherein  it  loses  itself. 

Or  was  Ynys  the  vain  dreamer?  That,  in- 
deed, might  well  be,  and  she  with  child,  and 
ever  a  visionary.  Mayhap  she  had  heard 
some  fantastic  tale  from  Morag  MacNeill  or 
from  old  Marsail  Macrae;  the  islanders  had 
sgeul  after  sgeul  of  a  wild  strangeness. 

In  silence  he  guided  the  boats  back  into  the 
outer  arcade,  where  a  faint  sheen  of  moon- 
light glistered  on  the  water.  Thence,  in  a  few 
minutes,  he  oared  that  wherein  he  and  Ynys 
sat,  with  the  other  fastened  astern,  into  the 
open. 

When  the  moonshine  lay  full  on  her  face, 
he  saw  that  she  was  thinking  neither  of  him 
nor  of  where  she  was.  Her  eyes  were  heavy 
with  dream. 

What  wind  there  was  blew  against  their 
course,  so  Alan  rowed  unceasingly.  In  silence 
they  passed  once  again  the  headland  of  Aoi- 
dhu;  in  silence  they  drifted  pasta  single  light 
gleaming  in  a  croft  near  Aonaig — a  red  eye 
staring  out  into  the  shadow  of  the  sea,  from 


In  the  Green  Arcades  223 

the  room  where  the  woman  Marsail  lay  dying; 
and  in  silence  their  keels  grided  on  the  patch 
of  shingle  in  Caisteal-Rhona  haven. 

But  when,  once  more,  Alan  found  himself 
with  Ynys  in  the  safe  quietudes  of  the  haven, 
he  pressed  her  eagerly  to  give  him  some  clear 
description  of  the  figure  she  had  seen. 

Ynys,  however,  had  become  strangely  ret- 
icent. All  he  could  elicit  from  her  was  that 
the  man  whom  she  had  seen  bore  no  resem- 
blance to  him,  except  in  so  far  as  he  was  fair. 
He  was  taller,  slimmer,  and  seemed  older. 

He  thought  it  wiser  not  to  speak  to  her  on 
what  he  himself  had  seen,  or  concerning  his 
conviction  that  it  was  the  same  mysterious 
stranger  who  had  appeared  to  both. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE   MESSAGE 

FOR  days  thereafter  Alan  haunted  that 
rocky,  cavernous  wilderness  where  he  had 
seen  the  Herdsman. 

It  was  in  vain  he  had  everywhere  sought 
to  find  word  of  this  mysterious  dweller  in 
those  upland  solitudes.  At  times  he  believed 
that  there  was  indeed  some  one  upon  the 
island  of  whom,  for  inexplicable  reasons, 
none  there  would  speak;  but  at  last  he  came 
to  the  conviction  that  what  he  had  seen  was 
an  apparition,  projected  by  the  fantasy  of 
overwrought  nerves.  Even  from  the  woman, 
Morag  MacNeill,  to  whom  he  had  gone  with  a 
frank  appeal  that  won  its  way  to  her  heart,  he 
learned  no  more  than  that  an  old  legend,  of 
which  she  did  not  care  to  speak,  was  in  some 
way  associated  with  his  own  coming  to  Rona. 

Ynys,  too,  never  once  alluded  to  the  myste- 


The  Message  225 

rious  incident  of  the  green  arcades  which  had 
so  deeply  impressed  them  both;  never,  that 
is,  after  the  ensuing  day  which  followed,  when, 
simply  and  spontaneously,  she  told  Alan  that 
she  believed  that  she  had  seen  a  vision.  When 
he  reminded  her  that  she  had  been  convinced 
of  its  reality,  Ynys  answered  that  for  days  past 
she  had  been  dreaming  a  strange  dream,  and 
that  doubtless  this  had  possessed  her  so  that 
her  nerves  played  her  false,  in  that  remote 
and  shadowy  place.  What  this  dream  was  she 
would  not  confide,  nor  did  he  press  her. 

But  as  the  days  went  by  and  as  no  word 
came  to  either  of  any  unknown  person  who 
was  on  the  island,  and  as  Alan,  for  all  his 
patient  wandering  and  furtive  quest,  both 
among  the  upland  caves  and  in  the  green 
arcades,  found  absolutely  no  traces  of  him 
whom  he  sought,  the  belief  that  he  had  been 
duped  by  his  imagination  deepened  almost  to 
conviction. 

As  for  Ynys,  day  after  day,  soft  veils  of 
dream  obscured  the  bare  realities  of  life.  But 
she,  unlike  Alan,  became  more  and  more  con- 
vinced that  what  she  had  seen  was  indeed  no 
15 


226  Green  Fire 

apparition.  Whatever  lingering  doubt  she 
had  was  dissipated  on  the  eve  of  the  night 
when  old  Marsail  Macrae  died.  It  was  dusk 
when  word  came  to  Caisteal-Rhona  that 
Marsail  felt  the  cold  wind  on  the  soles  of  her 
feet.  Ynys  went  to  her  at  once,  and  it  was 
in  the  dark  hour  which  followed  that  she 
heard  once  more  and  more  fully  the  strange 
story  which,  like  a  poisonous  weed,  had  taken 
root  in  the  minds  of  the  islanders.  Already 
from  Marsail  she  had  heard  of  the  Prophet, 
though,  strangely  enough,  she  had  never 
breathed  word  of  this  to  Alan,  not  even  when, 
after  the  startling  episode  of  the  apparition 
in  the  Teampull-Mhara,  she  had,  as  she  be- 
lieved, seen  the  Prophet  himself.  But  there 
in  the  darkness  of  the  low,  turfed  cottage,  with 
no  light  in  the  room  save  the  dull  red  gloom 
from  the  heart  of  the  smoored  peats,  Marsail, 
in  the  attenuated,  remote  voice  of  those  who 
have  already  entered  into  the  vale  of  the 
shadow,  told  her  this  thing. 

"Yes,  Ynys,  wife  of  Alan  MacAlasdair,   I 
will  be  telling  you  this  thing  before  I  change. 


The  Message  227 

You  are  for  knowing,  sure,  that  long  ago 
Uilleam,  brother  of  him  who  was  father  to 
your  man,  had  a  son?  Yes,  you  know  that, 
you  say,  and  also  that  he  was  called  Donnacha 
Ban?  No,  mo-run-geal,  that  is  not  a  true 
thing  that  you  have  heard,  that  Donnacha  Ban 
went  under  the  wave  years  ago.  He  was  the 
seventh  son,  and  was  born  under  the  full 
moon;  'tis  Himself  will  be  knowing  whether 
that  was  for  or  against  him.  Of  these  seven 
none  lived  beyond  childhood  except  the  two 
youngest,  Kenneth  and  Donnacha.  Kenneth 
was  always  frail  as  a  February  flower,  but  he 
lived  to  be  a  man.  He  and  his  brother  never 
spoke,  for  a  feud  was  between  them,  not  only 
because  that  each  was  unlike  the  other  and 
that  the  younger  hated  the  older  because  thus 
he  was  the  penniless  one — but  most  because 
both  loved  the  same  woman.  I  will  not  be 
telling  you  the  whole  story  now,  for  the 
breath  in  my  body  will  soon  blow  out  in  the 
draught  that  is  coming  upon  me;  but  this  I 
will  say  to  you:  darker  and  darker  grew 
the  gloom  between  these  brothers.  When 
Kirsteen  Macdonald  gave  her  love  to  Ken- 


228  Green  Fire 

neth,  Donnacha  disappeared  for  a  time.  Then, 
one  day,  he  came  back  to  Borosay,  and 
smiled  quietly  with  his  cold  eyes  when  they 
wondered  at  his  coming  again.  Now,  too,  it 
was  noticed  that  he  no  longer  had  an  ill-will 
upon  his  brother,  but  spoke  smoothly  with 
him  and  loved  to  be  in  his  company.  But,  to 
this  day,  no  one  knows  for  sure  what  hap- 
pened. For  there  was  a  gloaming  when  Don- 
nacha Ban  came  back  alone,  in  his  sailing 
boat.  He  and  Kenneth  had  sailed  forth,  he 
said,  to  shoot  seals  in  the  sea  arcades  to  the 
west  of  Rona;  but  in  these  dark  and  lonely 
passages,  they  had  missed  each  other.  At 
last  he  had  heard  Kenneth's  voice  calling  for 
help,  but  when  he  had  got  to  the  place,  it  was 
too  late,  for  his  brother  had  been  seized  with 
the  cramps,  and  had  sunk  deep  into  the 
fathomless  water.  There  is  no  getting  a 
body  again  that  sinks  in  these  sea  galleries. 
The  crabs  know  that. 

"Well,  this  and  much  more  was  what  Don- 
nacha Ban  told  to  his  people.  None  believed 
him;  but  what  could  any  do?  There  was  no 
proof;  none  had  ever  seen  them  enter  the  sea 


The  Message  229 

caves  together.  Not  that  Donnacha  Ban 
sought  in  any  way  to  keep  back  those  who 
would  fain  know  more.  Not  so;  he  strove  to 
help  to  find  the  body.  Nevertheless,  none 
believed;  and  Kirsteen  nic  Dugall  M5r  least 
of  all.  The  blight  of  that  sorrow  went  to  her 
heart.  She  had  death  soon,  poor  thing!  but 
before  the  cold  grayness  was  upon  her,  she 
told  her  father,  and  the  minister  that  was 
there,  that  she  knew  Donnacha  Ban  had 
murdered  his  brother.  One  might  be  saying 
these  were  the  wild  words  of  a  woman;  but, 
for  sure,  no  one  said  that  thing  upon  Borosay 
or  Rona,  or  any  of  these  isles.  When  all  was 
done,  the  minister  told  what  he  knew,  and 
what  he  thought,  to  the  Lord  of  the  South 
Isles,  and  asked  what  was  to  be  put  upon 
Donnacha  Ban.  'Exile  forever,'  said  the 
Chief,  'or  if  he  stays  here,  the  doom  of 
silence.  Let  no  man  or  woman  speak  to  him 
or  give  him  food  or  drink;  or  give  him 
shelter,  or  let  his  shadow  cross  his  or  hers.' 

"When  this  thing  was  told  to  Donnacha 
Ban  Carmichael,  he  laughed  at  first;  but  as 
day  slid  over  the  rocks  where  al'  days  fall,  he 


230  Green  Fire 

laughed  no  more.  Soon  he  saw  that  the 
Chief's  word  was  no  empty  word;  and  yet  he 
would  not  go  away  from  his  own  place.  He 
could  not  stay  upon  Borosay,  for  his  father 
cursed  him;  and  no  man  can  stay  upon  the 
island  where  a  father's  curse  moves  this  way 
and  that,  forever  seeking  him.  Then,  some 
say  a  madness  came  upon  him,  and  others  that 
he  took  wildness  to  be  his  way,  and  others 
that  God  put  upon  him  the  shadow  of  loneli- 
ness, so  that  he  might  meet  sorrow  there  and 
repent.  Howsoever  that  may  be,  Donnacha 
Ban  came  to  Rona,  and,  by  the  same  token,  it 
was  the  year  of  the  great  blight,  when  the 
potatoes  and  the  corn  came  to  naught,  and 
when  the  fish  in  the  sea  swam  away  from  the 

isles.     In  the  autumn  of  that  year  there  was 
i 
not  a  soul  left  on  Rona  except  Kirsten  Mac- 

donald  and  the  old  man  Ian,  her  father,  who 
had  guard  of  Caisteal-Rhona  for  him  who  was 
absent.  When,  once  more,  smoke  rose  from 
the  crofts,  the  rumor  spread  that  Donnacha 
Ban,  the  murderer,  had  made  his  home  among 
the  caves  of  the  upper  part  of  the  isle.  None 
knew  how  this  rumor  rose,  for  he  was  seen  of 


The  Message  231 

none.  The  last  man  who  saw  him — and  that 
was  a  year  later — was  old  Padruic  McVurich, 
the  shepherd.  Padruic  said  that,  as  he  was 
driving  his  ewes  across  the  north  slope  of  Ben 
Einaval  in  the  gloaming,  he  came  upon  a  silent 
figure  seated  upon  a  rock,  with  his  chin  in  his 
hands,  and  his  elbows  on  his  knees — with  the 
great,  sad  eyes  of  him  staring  at  the  moon  that 
was  lifting  itself  out  of  the  sea.  Padruic  did 
not  know  who  the  man  was.  The  shepherd 
had  few  wits,  poor  man!  and  he  had  known,  or 
remembered,  little  about  the  story  of  Don- 
nacha  Ban  Carmichael,  so,  when  he  spoke  to 
the  man,  it  was  as  to  a  stranger.  The  man 
looked  at  him  and  said: 

"'You  are  Padruic  McVurich,  the  shep- 
herd.' 

"  At  that  a  trembling  was  upon  old  Padruic, 
who  had  the  wonder  that  this  stranger  should 
know  who  and  what  he  was. 

"  '  And  who  will  you  be,  and  forgive  the  say- 
ing?' he  asked. 

"  '  Am  Faidh — the  Prophet,'  the  man  said. 

"  '  And  what  prophet  will  you  be,  and  what 
is  your  prophecy? '  asked  Padruic. 


232  Green  Fire 

"  '  I  am  here  because  I  wait  for  what  is  to 
be,  and  that  will  be  for  the  birth  of  a  child 
that  is  to  be  a  king.' 

"And  with  that  the  man  said  no  more,  and 
the  old  shepherd  went  silently  down  through 
the  hillside  gloaming,  and,  heavy  with  the 
thoughts  that  troubled  him,  followed  his  ewes 
down  into  Aonaig.  But  after  that  neither  he 
nor  any  other  saw  or  heard  aught  of  the 
shadowy  stranger;  so  that  all  upon  Rona  felt 
sure  that  Padruic  had  beheld  no  more  than  a 
vision.  There  were  some  who  thought  that 
he  had  seen  the  ghost  of  the  outlaw  Donnacha 
Ban;  and  mayhap  one  or  two  who  wondered  if 
the  stranger  that  had  said  he  was  a  prophet 
was  not  Donnacha  Ban  himself,  with  a  mad- 
ness come  upon  him;  but  at  last  these  rumors 
went  out  to  sea  upon  the  wind,  and  men  for- 
got. But,  and  it  was  months  and  months 
afterward,  and  three  days  before  his  own 
death,  old  Padruic  McVurich  was  sitting  in 
the  sunset  on  the  rocky  ledge  in  front  of  his 
brother's  croft,  where  then  he  was  staying, 
when  he  heard  a  strange  crying  of  seals. 
He  thought  little  of  that;  only,  when  he 


The  Message  233 

looked  closer,  he  saw,  in  the  hollow  of  the 
wave  hard  by  that  ledge,  a  drifting  body. 

"Am  Faidh—Am  Faidh!"  he  cried;  "the 
Prophet,  the  Prophet! " 

At  that  his  brother  and  his  brother's  wife 
ran  to  see;  but  it  was  nothing  that  they  saw. 
"  It  would  be  a  seal,"  said  Pol  McVurich;  but 
at  that  Padruic  had  shook  his  head,  and  said 
no,  for  sure,  he  had  seen  the  face  of  the  dead 
man,  and  it  was  of  him  whom  he  had  met  on 
the  hillside,  and  that  had  said  he  was  the 
Prophet  who  was  waiting  there  for  the  birth 
of  a  king. 

"  And  that  is  how  there  came  about  the  echo 
of  the  thought,  that  Donnacha  Ban  had  at 
last,  after  his  madness,  gone  under  the  green 
wave  and  was  dead.  For  all  that,  in  the 
months  which  followed,  more  than  one  man 
said  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  figure  high 
up  on  the  hill.  The  old  wisdom  says  that 
when  Christ  comes  again,  or  the  Prophet  who 
will  herald  Christ,  it  will  be  as  a  herdsman  on 
a  lonely  isle.  More  than  one  of  the  old 
people  on  Rona  and  Borosay  remembered  that 
sgeul  out  of  the  seanachas  that  the  tale-tellers 


234  Green  Fire 

knew.  There  were  some  who  said  that  Don- 
nacha  Ban  had  never  been  drowned  at  all,  and 
that  he  was  this  Prophet,  this  Herdsman. 
Others  would  not  have  that  saying  at  all,  but 
believed  that  the  mysterious  herdsman  was 
indeed  Am  Buchaille  Ban,  the  Fair-haired 
Shepherd,  who  had  come  again  to  redeem  the 
people  out  of  their  sorrow.  There  were  even 
those  who  said  that  the  Herdsman  who 
haunted  Rona  was  no  other  than  Kenneth 
Carmichael  himself,  who  had  not  died,  but  had 
had  the  mind-dark  there  in  the  sea  caves 
where  he  had  been  lost,  and  there  had  come 
to  the  knowledge  of  secret  things,  and  so  was 
at  last  Am  Faidh  Chriosd. " 

A  great  weakness  came  upon  the  old  woman 
when  she  had  spoken  thus  far.  Ynys  feared 
that  she  would  have  breath  for  no  further 
word,  but  after  a  thin  gasping,  and  a  listless 
fluttering  of  weak  hands  upon  the  coverlet, 
whereon  her  trembling  fingers  plucked  aim- 
lessly at  the  invisible  blossoms  of  death,  she 
opened  her  eyes  once  more  and  stared  in  a 
dim  questioning  at  her  who  sat  by  her  bedside. 


The  Message  235 

"Tell  me,"  whispered  Ynys,  "tell  me, 
Marsail,  what  thought  it  is  that  is  in  your  own 
mind?" 

But  already  the  old  woman  had  begun  to 
wander,  though  Ynys  did  not  know  this. 

"For  sure,  for  sure,"  she  muttered,  "Am 
Faidh  .  .  .  Am  Faidh  ...  an'  a  child  will 
be  born  .  .  .  an'  a  king  he  will  be,  an'  .  .  . 
that  will  be  the  voice  of  Domhuill,  my  hus- 
band, I  am  hearing  .  .  .  an'  dark  it  is,  an' 
the  tide  comin'  in  ...  an' " 

Then,  sure,  the  tide  came  in,  and  if  in  that 
darkness  old  Marsail  Macrae  heard  any  voice 
at  all,  it  was  that  of  Domhuill  who  years 
agone  had  sunk  into  the  wild  seas  off  the 
head  of  Barra. 

An  hour  later,  with  tears  still  in  her  eyes, 
Ynys  walked  slowly  home  through  the  cloudy 
night.  All  she  had  heard  came  back  to  her 
with  a  strange  familiarity.  Something  of  this, 
at  least,  she  had  known  before.  Some  hints 
of  this  mysterious  Herdsman  had  reached  her 
ears.  In  some  inexplicable  way  his  real  or 
imaginary  presence  there  upon  Rona  seemed 
a  preordained  thing  for  her.  All  that  dream- 


236  Green  Fire 

ing  mysticism,  which  had  wrought  so  much  of 
beauty  and  wonder  into  her  girlhood  in  Brit- 
tany, had  expanded  into  a  strange  flower  of 
the  imagination — a  flower  whose  subtle  frag- 
rance affected  her  inward  life.  Sometimes 
she  had  wondered  if  all  the  tragic  vicissitudes 
which  happened  at  Kerival,  with  the  strange 
and  dreamlike  life  which  she  and  Alan  had 
led  since,  had  so  wrought  upon  her  that  the 
unreal  became  real,  and  the  actual  merely 
phantasmal;  for  now  she  felt  more  than  ever 
assured  that  some  hidden  destiny  had  con- 
trolled all  this  disastrous  mischance,  had  led 
her  and  Alan  there  to  that  lonely  island. 

She  knew  that  the  wild  imaginings  of  the 
islanders  had  woven  the  legend  of  the 
Prophet,  or  at  any  rate  of  his  message,  out  of 
the  loom  of  the  longing  and  the  deep  nos- 
talgia whereon  is  woven  that  larger  tapestry, 
the  shadow-thridden  life  of  the  island  Gael. 
Laughter  and  tears,  ordinary  hopes  and 
pleasures,  and  even  joy  itself,  and  bright 
gayety,  and  the  swift,  spontaneous  imagination 
of  susceptible  natures — all  this,  of  course,  is 
to  be  found  with  the  island  Gael  as  with  his 


The  Message  237 

fellows  elsewhere.  But  every  here  and  there 
are  some  who  have  in  their  minds  the  in- 
heritance from  the  dim  past  of  their  race, 
and  are  oppressed  as  no  other  people  are 
oppressed  by  the  gloom  of  a  strife  between 
spiritual  emotion  and  material  facts.  It  is 
the  brains  of  dreamers  such  as  these  which 
clear  the  mental  life  of  the  community;  and 
it  is  in  these  brains  are  the  mysterious  looms 
which  weave  the  tragic  and  sorrowful  tapes- 
tries of  Celtic  thought.  It  were  a  madness  to 
suppose  that  life  in  the  isles  consists  of  noth- 
ing but  sadness  or  melancholy.  It  is  not  so, 
or  need  not  be  so,  for  the  Gael  is  a  creature 
of  shadow  and  shine.  But  whatever  the 
people  is,  the  brain  of  the  Gael  hears  a  music 
that  is  sadder  than  any  music  there  is,  and 
has  for  its  cloudy  sky  a  gloom  that  shall  not 
go,  for  the  end  is  near,  and  upon  the  western- 
most shores  of  these  remote  isles,  the  Voice — 
as  has  been  truly  said  by  one  who  has  beauti- 
fully interpreted  his  own  people — the  Voice 
of  Celtic  Sorrow  may  be  heard  crying,  "  Cha 
till,  cha  till,  cha  till  mi  tuille  " — I  will  return,  I 
will  return,  I  will  return  no  more. 


238  Green  Fire 

Ynys  knew  all  this  well;  and  yet  she  too 
dreamed  her  Celtic  dream — that,  even  yet, 
there  might  be  redemption  for  the  people. 
She  did  not  share  the  wild  hope  which 
some  of  the  older  islanders  held,  that  Christ 
himself  shall  come  again  to  redeem  an  op- 
pressed race;  but  might  not  another  saviour 
arise,  another  redeeming  spirit  come  into  the 
world?  And  if  so,  might  not  that  child  of 
joy  be  born  out  of  suffering  and  sorrow  and 
crime;  and  if  so,  might  not  that  child  be  born 
of  her? 

With  startled  eyes  she  crossed  the  thyme- 
set  ledge  whereon  stood  Caisteal-Rhona. 
Was  it,  after  all,  a  message  she  had  received 
from  him  who  appeared  to  her  in  that  lonely 
cavern  of  the  sea;  was  he  indeed  Am  Faidh, 
the  mysterious  Prophet  of  the  isles? 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE    LAUGHTER   OF    THE    KING 

WHAT  are  dreams  but  the  dust  of  wayfaring 
thoughts?  Or  whence  are  they,  and  what  air 
is  upon  their  shadowy  wings?  Do  they  come 
out  of  the  twilight  of  man's  mind;  are  they 
ghosts  of  exiles  from  vanished  palaces  of 
the  brain;  or  are  they  heralds  with  proc- 
lamations of  hidden  tidings  for  the  soul  that 
dreams? 

It  was  a  life  of  dream  that  Ynys  and  Alan 
lived;  but  Ynys  the  more,  for,  as  week  after 
week  went  by,  the  burden  of  her  motherhood 
wrought  her  increasingly.  Ever  since  the 
night  of  Marsail's  death,  Alan  had  noticed 
that  Ynys  no  longer  doubted  but  that  in  some 
way  a  special  message  had  come  to  her,  a 
special  revelation.  On  the  other  hand,  he 
had  himself  swung  back  to  his  former  convic- 
tion, that  the  vision  he  had  seen  upon  the 


240  Green  Fire 

hillside  was,  in  truth,  that  of  a  living  man. 
From  fragments  here  and  there,  a  phrase,  a 
revealing  word,  a  hint  gleaming  through 
obscure  allusions,  he  came  at  last  to  believe 
that  some  one  bearing  a  close,  and  even 
extraordinary,  resemblance  to  himself  lived 
upon  Rona.  Although  upon  the  island  itself 
he  could  seldom  persuade  any  one  to  speak 
of  the  Herdsman,  the  islanders  of  Seila  and 
Borosay  became  gradually  less  reticent.  He 
ascertained  this,  at  least:  that  their  fear  and 
aversion,  when  he  first  came,  had  been  occa- 
sioned by  the  startling  likeness  between  him 
and  the  mysterious  being  whom  they  called 
Am  Buchaille  Ban.  On  Borosay,  he  was  told, 
the  fishermen  believed  that  the  aonaran  nan 
chreag,  the  recluse  of  the  rocks,  as  commonly 
they  spoke  of  him,  was  no  other  than  Don- 
nacha  Ban  Carmichael,  survived  there  through 
these  many  years,  and  long  since  mad  with 
his  loneliness  and  because  of  the  burden 
of  his  crime.  It  was  with  keen  surprise  that 
Alan  learned  how  many  of  the  fishermen  of 
Borosay  and  Berneray,  and  even  of  Barra, 
had  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  outcast.  It  was 


The  Laughter  of  the  King  241 

this  relative  familiarity,  indeed,  that  was  at 
the  root  of  the  fear  and  aversion  which  had 
met  him  upon  his  arrival.  Almost  from  the 
moment  he  had  landed  in  Borosay,  the  rumor 
had  spread  that  he  was  indeed  no  other  than 
Donnacha  Ban,  and  that  he  had  chosen  this 
way,  now  both  his  father  and  Alasdair 
Carmichael  were  dead,  to  return  to  his  own 
place.  So  like  was  Alan  to  the  outlaw  who 
had  long  since  disappeared  from  touch  with 
his  fellow  men,  that  many  were  convinced 
that  the  two  could  be  no  other  than  one  and 
the  same.  What  puzzled  him  hardly  less  was 
the  fact  that,  on  the  rare  occasions  when  Ynys 
had  consented  to  speak  of  what  she  had  seen, 
the  man  she  described  bore  no  resemblance  to 
himself.  From  one  thing  and  another,  he 
came  at  last  to  the  belief  that  he  had  really 
seen  Donnacha  Ban,  his  cousin;  but  that 
the  vision  of  Ynys's  mind  was  born  of  her 
imagination,  stimulated  by  all  the  tragedy 
and  strange  vicissitudes  she  had  known,  and 
wrought  by  the  fantastic  tales  of  Marsail  and 
Morag  MacNeill. 

By  this  time,  too,  the  islanders  had  come  to 
16 


242  Green  Fire 

see  that  Alan  MacAlasdair  was  certainly  not 
Donnacha  Ban.  Even  the  startling  likeness 
no  longer  betrayed  them  in  this  way.  The 
ministers  and  the  priests  laughed  at  the  whole 
story  and  everywhere  discouraged  the  idea 
that  Donnacha  Ban  could  still  be  among  the 
living.  But  for  the  unfortunate  superstition 
that  to  meet  the  Herdsman,  whether  the  lost 
soul  of  Donnacha  Ban  or  indeed  the  strange 
phantom  of  the  hills  of  which  the  old  legends 
spoke,  was  to  meet  inevitable  disaster;  but 
for  this,  the  islanders  might  have  been  per- 
suaded to  make  such  a  search  among  the 
caves  of  Rona  as  would  almost  certainly  have 
revealed  the  presence  of  any  who  dwelt 
therein. 

But  as  summer  lapsed  into  autumn,  and 
autumn  itself  through  its  golden  silences 
waned  into  the  shadow  of  the  equinox,  a  quiet 
happiness  came  upon  both  Alan  and  Ynys. 
True,  she  was  still  wrought  by  her  strange 
visionary  life,  though  of  this  she  said  little  or 
nothing;  and,  as  for  himself,  he  hoped  that 
with  the  birth  of  the  child  this  fantastic 
dream  life  would  go.  Whoever  the  mysteri- 


The  Laughter  of  the  King  243 

ous  Herdsman  was — if  he  indeed  existed  at 
all  except  in  the  imaginations  of  those  who 
spoke  of  him  either  as  the  Buchaille  Ban,  or 
as  the  aonaran  nan  chreag — Alan  believed 
that  at  last  he  had  passed  away.  None  saw 
him  now:  and  even  Morag  MacNeill,  who 
had  often  on  moonlight  nights  caught  the 
sound  of  a  voice  chanting  among  the  upper 
solitudes,  admitted  that  she  now  heard  noth- 
ing unusual. 

St.  Martin's  summer  came  at  last,  and  with 
it  all  that  wonderful,  dreamlike  beauty  which 
bathes  the  isles  in  a  flood  of  golden  light,  and 
puts  upon  sea  and  land  a  veil  as  of  ineffable 
mystery. 

One  late  afternoon  Yyns,  returning  to 
Caisteal-Rhona  after  an  unexplained  absence 
of  several  hours,  found  Alan  sitting  at  a  table. 
Spread  before  him  were  the  sheets  of  one  of 
the  strange  old  Gaelic  tales  which  he  had 
ardently  begun  to  translate.  She  took  up  the 
page  which  he  had  just  laid  down.  It  was 
from  the  Eachdaireachd  Challum  mhic  cruimein, 
and  the  last  words  that  Alan  had  translated 
were  these: 


244  Green  Fire 

"And  when  that  king  had  come  to  the 
island,  he  lived  there  in  the  shadow  of  men's 
eyes;  for  none  saw  him  by  day  or  by  night, 
and  none  knew  whence  he  came  or  whither  he 
fared;  for  his  feet  were  shod  with  silence,  and 
his  way  with  dusk.  But  men  knew  that  he 
was  there,  and  all  feared  him.  Months,  even 
years,  tramped  one  on  the  heels  of  the  other, 
and  perhaps  the  king  gave  no  sign,  but  one 
day  he  would  give  a  sign;  and  that  sign  was  a 
laughing  that  was  heard  somewhere,  be  it 
upon  the  lonely  hills,  or  on  the  lonely  wave,  or 
in  the  heart  of  him  who  heard.  And  when- 
ever the  king  laughed,  he  who  heard  would 
fare  ere  long  from  his  fellows  to  join  that  king 
in  the  shadow.  But  sometimes  the  king 
laughed  only  because  of  vain  hopes  and  wild 
imaginings,  for  upon  these  he  lives  as  well  as 
upon  the  strange  savors  of  mortality." 

Ynys  read  the  page  over  and  over;  and 
when  Alan  saw  how  she  brooded  upon  it,  he 
regretted  that  he  had  left  it  for  her  to  see. 

He  the  more  regretted  this  when  he  learned 
that  that  very  afternoon  she  had'again  been 


The  Laughter  of  the  King          245 

among  the  sea  caves.  She  would  not  say 
what  she  had  seen  or  heard,  if  indeed  she 
had  heard  or  seen  any  thing  unusual.  But 
that  night  she  woke  suddenly,  and  taking 
Alan  by  the  hand,  made  him  promise  to  go 
with  her  on  the  morrow  to  the  Teampull- 
Mhara. 

In  vain  he  questioned  her  as  to  why  she  asked 
this  thing.  All  she  would  say  was  that  she 
must  go  there  once  again,  and  with  him,  for 
she  believed  that  a  spirit  out  of  heaven  had 
come  to  reveal  to  her  a  wonder.  Distressed  . 
by  what  he  knew  to  be  a  madness,  and  fearful 
that  it  might  prove  to  be  no  passing  fantasy, 
Alan  would  fain  have  persuaded  her  against 
this  intention.  Even  as  he  spoke,  however, 
he  realized  that  it  might  be  better  to  accede 
to  her  wishes,  and,  above  all,  to  be  there 
with  her,  so  that  it  might  not  be  one  only  who 
heard  or  saw  the  expected  revelation. 

And  it  was  a  strange  faring  indeed,  that 
which  occurred  on  the  morrow.  At  noon, 
when  the  tide  was  an  hour  turned  in  the  ebb, 
they  sailed  westward  from  Caisteal-Rhona. 
It  was  in  silence  they  made  that  strange  jour- 


246  Green  Fire 

ney  together;  for,  while  Alan  steered,  Ynys 
lay  down  in  the  hollow  of  the  boat,  with  her 
head  against  his  knees,  and  he  saw  that  she 
slept,  or  at  least  lay  still  with  her  eyes  closed. 

When,  at  last,  they  passed  the  headland 
and  entered  the  first  of  the  sea  arcades,  she 
rose  and  sat  beside  him.  Hauling  down  the 
now  useless  sail,  he  took  an  oar  and,  standing 
at  the  prow,  urged  the  boat  inward  along  the 
narrow  corridor  which  led  to  the  huge  sea 
cave  of  the  Altar. 

In  the  deep  gloom — for  even  on  that  day 
of  golden  light  and  beauty  the  green  air  of  the 
sea  cave  was  heavy  with  shadow — there  was  a 
deathly  chill.  What  dull  light  there  was  came 
from  the  sheen  of  the  green  water  which  lay 
motionless  along  the  black  basaltic  ledges. 
When  at  last  the  base  of  the  Altar  was  reached, 
Alan  secured  the  boat  by  a  rope  passed 
around  a  projecting  spur;  and  then  lay  down 
in  the  stern  beside  Ynys. 

"Tell  me,  dear,  what  is  this  thing  that  you 
expect  to  hear  or  see? " 

She  looked  at  him  strangely  for  a  while, 
but,  though  her  lips  moved,  she  said  nothing. 


The  Laughter  of  the  King  247 

"Tell  me,  dear,"  he  urged  again,  "who  is  it 
you  expect  to  see  or  hear?  " 

"Am  Buchaille  B&n,"  she  answered,  "the 
Herdsman." 

For  a  moment  he  hesitated.  Then,  taking 
her  hand  in  his,  and  raising  it  to  his  lips,  he 
whispered  in  her  ear: 

"Dearest,  all  this  is  a  vain  dream.  There 
is  no  Herdsman  upon  Rona.  If  ever  there 
was  a  man  there  who  lived  solitary — if  ever, 
indeed,  there  was  an  aonaran  nan  chreag — he  is 
dead  long  since.  What  you  have  seen  and 
heard  has  been  a  preying  upon  you  of  wild 
thoughts.  Think  no  more  of  this  vision. 
We  have  both  suffered  too  much,  and  the 
knowledge  of  what  is  behind  us  has  wrought 
upon  us  too  hardly.  It  is  a  mistake  to  be 
here,  on  Rona,  now.  Ynys,  darling,  you  and 
I  are  young,  and  we  love;  let  us  leave  this 
melancholy  isle — these  melancholy  isles — and 
go  back  into  the  green,  sunny  world  wherein 
we  had  such  joy  before;  yes,  let  us  even  go 
back  to  Kerival;  anywhere  where  we  may  live 
our  life  with  joy  and  glad  content — but 
not  here,  not  in  these  melancholy,  haunted 


248  Green  Fire 

isles,  where  our  dreams  become  more  real 
than  our  life,  and  life  itself,  for  us  at  least, 
the  mere  shadow  of  being.  Ynys,  will  you 
come?  Will  you  go?" 

"All  shall  be  as  you  will,  Alan — afterward. 
But  first,  I  must  wait  here  till  our  child  is 
born,  for  I  have  heard  that  which  is  a 
message.  And  one  part  of  that  message 
concerns  you  and  me;  and  one  concerns 
others.  And  that  which  concerns  you  and 
me  is  that  in  this  way,  in  this  child,  to  be 
born  here  in  this  place,  lies  the  redemption 
of  that  evil  by  which  your  father  was  slain  by 
my  father.  It  is  not  enough  that  you  and 
I  have  forgotten  the  past;  the  past  remains. 
What  we  cannot  do,  or  no  man  or  woman  can 
do,  the  powers  that  are  beyond  the  grave  can 
accomplish.  Not  our  love,  not  even  ours, 
can  redeem  that  crime.  But  if,  born  of  us, 
one  will  come,  who  will  be  dowered  with  our 
love  and  free  from  the  blood  shadow  which 
lies  upon  us,  then  all  will  be  well  and  the  evil 
shall  be  done  with  forever  more.  But  also, 
has  not  the  Prophet  said  that  one  shall  be 
born  upon  this  island  who  will  redeem  his 


The  Laughter  of  the  King  249 

oppressed  people?  And  this  Prophet,  Alan, 
I  have  seen  and  heard.  Never  have  I  seen 
his  face  aright,  for  it  has  ever  been  in  the 
shadow;  but  I  have  heard  his  voice,  for  he 
has  spoken  to  me,  and  what  he  has  said  is 
this:  that  in  the  fulness  of  time  the  child 
I  shall  bear  will  be  he  of  whom  men  have 
dreamed  in  the  isles  for  ages  past.  Sure, 
dear,  you  and  I  must  be  believing  that  thing, 
since  he  who  tells  it  is  no  mere  erring  Faidh, 
but  himself  an  immortal  spirit." 

Alan  looked  at  the  speaker  in  amaze. 
There  could  be  no  question  of  her  absolute 
sincerity;  for  the  beautiful  face  was  lit  with 
a  strange  light,  and  in  her  eyes  was  a  proud 
gleam  of  conscious  sacrifice.  That  it  was  all 
a  madness,  a  fantasy,  he  knew  well.  Long 
ago  had  Lois  de  Kerival  spoken  of  the 
danger  that  lay  for  Ynys;  she  being  the  in- 
heritor of  a  strange  brooding  spirit  which 
belonged  to  her  people.  Now,  in  this  remote 
place,  the  life  of  dream  and  the  life  of 
reality  had  become  one;  and  Ynys  was  as 
a  drifted  ship  among  unknown  seas  and 
mists. 


250  Green  Fire 

But  on  one  point  he  believed  he  might 
convince  her. 

"Why  do  you  speak  of  the  Herdsman  as 
a  spirit,  Ynys?  What  proof  have  you  of  this? 
If  you  or  I  have  seen  any  one  at  all,  be  sure 
it  is  a  mortal  man  and  no  spirit;  nay,  I  know 
who  it  must  be,  if  any  one  it  is,  for  through- 
out the  isles  men  say  that  Donnacha  Ban, 
the  son  of  the  brother  of  my  father,  was 
an  outlaw  here,  and  has  lived  long  among 
the  caves." 

"This  man,"  she  said  quietly,  "is  not 
Donnacha  Ban,  but  the  Prophet  of  whom  the 
people  speak.  He  himself  has  told  me  this 
thing.  Yesterday  I  was  here,  and  he  bade 
me  come  again.  He  spoke  out  of  the  shadow 
that  is  about  the  Altar,  though  I  saw  him 
not.  I  asked  him  if  he  were  Donnacha  Ban, 
and  he  said  'No.'  I  asked  him  if  he  were 
Am  Faidh,  and  he  said  'Yes.'  I  asked  him 
if  he  were  indeed  an  immortal  spirit,  and 
herald  of  that  which  was  to  be,  and  he  said 
'  Even  so.' " 

For  a  long  while  after  this,  no  word  was 
spoken  betwixt  the  twain.  The  chill  of  that 


The  Laughter  of  the  King  251 

remote  place  began  to  affect  Ynys,  and  she 
shivered  slightly  at  times.  But  more  she 
shivered  because  of  the  silence  which  pre- 
vailed, and  because  that  he  who  had  promised 
to  be  there  gave  no  sign.  Sure,  she  thought, 
it  could  not  be  all  a  dream;  sure,  the  Herds- 
man would  come  again. 

Then,  at  last,  turning  to  Alan,  she  said, 
"We  must  come  on  the  morrow;  for  to-day 
he  is  not  here." 

"  No,  dear;  never,  never  shall  we  come 
here  again.  This  is  for  the  last  time. 
Henceforth,  we  shall  dwell  here  in  Rona  no 
more." 

"You  will  do  this  thing  for  me,  Alan,  that 
I  ask? " 

"  I  will  do  what  you  ask,  Ynys." 

11  Then  take  this  written  word,  and  leave 
it  upon  the  top  of  the  great  rock  there  that 
is  called  the  Altar." 

With  that  she  placed  in  his  hand  a  slip  of 
paper  whereon  she  had  already  written  cer- 
tain words.  What  they  were,  Alan  could  not 
discern  in  that  shadowy  light;  but,  taking  the 
slip  in  his  hand,  he  stepped  on  the  black 


252  Green  Fire 

ledges  at  the  base  of  the  Altar,  and  slowly 
mounted  the  precipitous  rock. 

Ynys  watched  him  till  he  became  himself 
a  shadow  in  that  darkness.  Her  heart  leaped 
when  suddenly  she  heard  a  cry  fall  to  her  out 
of  the  gloom. 

"Alan,  Alan!"  she  cried,  and  a  great  fear 
was  upon  her  when  no  answer  came;  but  at 
last,  with  passionate  relief,  she  heard  him 
clambering  slowly  down  the  perilous  slope  of 
that  obscure  place.  When  he  reached  the 
ledge,  he  stood  still,  regarding  her. 

"Why  do  you  not  come  into  the  boat, 
Alan?  "  she  asked. 

"Dear,  I  have  that  to  tell  you  which  will 
let  you  see  that  I  spoke  truth." 

She  looked  at  him  with  parted  lips,  her 
breath  coming  and  going  like  that  of  a  caged 
bird. 

"What  is  it,  Alan?  "  she  whispered. 

"Ynys,  when  I -reached  the  top  of  the 
Altar,  and  in  the  dim  light  that  was  there,  I 
saw  the  dead  body  of  a  man  lying  upon  the 
rock.  His  head  was  lain  back  so  that  the 
gleam  from  a  crevice  in  the  cliff  overhead  fell 


The  Laughter  of  the  King  253 

upon  it.  The  man  has  been  dead  many 
hours.  He  is  a  man  whose  hair  has  been 
grayed  by  years  and  sorrow,  but  the  man  is 
he  who  is  of  my  blood;  he  whom  I  resemble 
so  closely;  he  that  the  fishermen  call  aonaran 
nan  chreag;  he  that  is  the  Herdsman." 

Ynys  made  no  reply;  still  she  looked  at 
him  with  large,  wondering  eyes. 

"  Ynys,  darling,  do  you  not  understand 
what  it  is  that  I  say?  This  man,  that  they 
call  the  Buchaille  Ban — this  man  whom  you 
believe  to  be  the  Herdsman  of  the  old  legend 
— is  no  other  than  Donnacha  Ban,  he  who 
years  and  years  ago  slew  his  brother  and  has 
been  an  exile  ever  since  on  this  lonely  island. 
How  could  he,  then,  a  man  as  I  am,  though 
with  upon  him  a  worse  blood-shadow  than 
lies  upon  us — how  could  he  tell  you  aught  of 
what  is  to  be?  What  message  could  he  give 
you  that  is  himself  a  lost  soul? 

"Would  you  be  for  following  a  herdsman 
who  could  lead  you  to  no  fold?  This  man  is 
dead,  Ynys;  and  it  is  well  that  you  brought 
me  here  to-day.  That  is  a  good  thing,  and 
for  sure  God  willed  it.  Out  of  this  all  our 


254  Green  Fire 

new  happiness  may  come.  For  now  we  know 
what  is  this  mysterious  shadow  that  has  dark- 
ened our  lives  ever  since  we  came  to  Rona. 
Now  we  have  knowledge  that  it  was  no  mere 
phantom  I  saw  upon  the  hillside;  and  now  also 
we  know  that  he  who  told  you  these  strange, 
wild  things  of  which  you  speak  was  no 
prophet  with  a  message  from  the  world  of  the 
spirit,  but  a  man  wrought  to  madness,  a  man 
who  for  all  these  years  had  lived  his  lonely, 
secretive  life  upon  the  hills,  or  among  these 
caves  of  the  sea.  Come,  then,  dear,  and  let 
us  go  hence.  Sure,  at  the  last,  it  is  well  that 
we  have  found  this  way.  Come,  Ynys,  we 
will  go  now  and  never  come  here  again." 

He  looked  eagerly  for  her  assenting  eyes. 
With  pain  in  his  heart,  however,  he  saw  that 
the  dream — the  strange,  inexplicable  fantasy — 
had  not  yet  gone  out  of  them.  With  a  sigh, 
he  entered  the  boat  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Let  us  go,"  she  said,  and  that  was  all. 

Slowly  Alan  oared  the  boat  across  the 
shadowy  gulf  of  the  cave,  along  the  narrow 
passage  which  led  therefrom,  and  out  into 
the  pale  green  gloom  of  the  arched  arcade 


The  Laughter  of  the  King  255 

wherein  the  sight  and  sound  of  the  sea  made 
a  music  in  his  ears. 

But  the  short  November  day  was  already 
passing  to  its  end.  All  the  sea  westward  was 
aflame  with  gold  and  crimson  light,  and  in  the 
great  dome  of  the  sky  a  wonderful  radiance 
lifted  above  the  paleness  of  the  clouds  whose 
pinnacled  and  bastioned  heights  towered  in 
the  south-west. 

A  faint  wind  blew  eastwardly;  so,  raising 
the  sail,  Alan  made  it  fast  and  then  sat  down 
beside  Ynys.  But  she,  rising,  moved  along 
the  boat  to  the  mast,  and  leaned  there  with 
her  face  against  the  setting  sun. 

Idly  they  drifted  onward.  Deep  silence 
prevailed  betwixt  them;  deep  silence  was  all 
about  them,  save  for  the  endless,  inarticulate 
murmur  of  the  sea,  the  splash  of  low  waves 
against  the  rocks  of  Rona,  and  the  sigh  of  the 
surf  at  the  base  of  the  basalt  precipices. 

And  this  was  their  homeward  sailing  on 
that  day  of  revelation;  Ynys,  with  her  back 
against  the  mast,  and  her  face  irradiated  by 
the  light  of  the  setting  sun;  he,  steering, 
with  his  face  in  shadow. 


256  Green  Fire 

On  a  night  of  rain  and  amid  the  rumor  of 
tempest,  three  weeks  later,  Ynys  heard  the 
Laughter  of  the  King,  when  the  child  who 
was  to  be  the  bearer  of  so  fair  a  destiny  lay 
by  her  side,  white  and  chill  as  the  foam 
thrown  up  for  a  brief  while  upon  the  rocks 
by  the  unheeding  sea. 


BOOK  THIRD 
THE  BEAUTY  OF  THE  WORLD 


CHAPTER   XV 
THE    BEAUTY    OF    THE    WORLD 

WHEN,  once  more,  the  exquisite  mystery 
of  spring  came  upon  the  world,  there  was 
a  not  less  wonderful  rebirth  in  the  heart  of 
Ynys. 

With  the  coming  of  that  child  upon  whom 
such  high  hopes  had  been  set — its  birth,  still 
and  quiet  as  a  snowdrop  fallen  before  an  icy 
wind  upon  the  snow  which  nurtured  it — all  the 
fear  of  a  mysterious  Nemesis,  because  of  her 
union  with  Alan  despite  the  shadow  of  tragic 
crime  which  made  that  union  ominous  of  evil 
destiny;  all  the  vague  forebodings  which  had 
possessed  her  ever  since  she  leftKerival;  and, 
at  the  last,  all  the  mystic  elation  with  which 
her  mind  had  become  a  winged  and  wandering 
spirit,  passed  from  her. 

The  gloom  of  that  northern  winter  was 
tonic  to  them  both.  As  soon  as  her  weakness 


260  Green  Fire 

was  past,  and  once  more  she  was  able  to  go 
about  with  Alan,  her  old  joyousness  returned. 
In  her  eyes  it  was  almost  as  though  the 
islanders  shared  her  recovered  happiness. 
For  one  thing,  they  no  more  avoided  her  and 
Alan.  With  the  death  of  the  man  who  had 
so  long  sustained  a  mysterious  existence 
upon  Rona,  their  superstitious  aversion  went; 
they  ceased  to  speak  of  Am  Buchaille  B&n 
and,  whether  Donnacha  Ban  had  found  on 
Rona  one  of  the  hidden  ways  to  heaven  or 
had  only  dallied  upon  one  of  the  byways  to 
hell,  it  was  commonly  held  that  he  had  paid 
his  death-eric  by  his  lonely  and  even  appalling 
life  of  unredeemed  solitude.  Now  that  there 
was  no  longer  any  possibility  of  confusion  be- 
tween the  outcast  who  had  come  to  his  tragic 
end,  among  the  sea  caves  of  Rona,  and  his 
kinsman  who  bore  to  him  so  extraordinary  a 
resemblance,  a  deep  sense  of  the  injustice  that 
had  been  done  to  Alan  Carmichael  prevailed 
among  the  islanders.  In  many  ways  they 
showed  their  regret;  but  most  satisfactorily, 
so  far  as  Alan  was  concerned,  by  taking  him 
as  one  of  themselves;  as  a  man  no  longer 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  261 

under  the  shadow  of  doom  or  in  any  way 
linked  to  a  disastrous  fate. 

True,  there  were  still  some  of  the  isle  folk 
on  Borosay  and  Barra  who  maintained  that  the 
man  who  had  been  found  in  the  sea  cave, 
whether  Donnacha  Ban  or  some  other,  had 
nothing  to  do  with  the  mysterious  Herdsman, 
whose  advent,  indeed,  had  long  been  antici- 
pated by  a  section  of  the  older  inhabitants. 
It  was  only  seven  years  since  Murdo  Mac- 
phail — better  known  as  Murdo-Bronnach-na- 
mhara,  Brown  Murdoch  of  the  Sea,  from  his 
habit  of  preaching  to  the  islanders  from  where 
he  stood  waist-deep  in  the  water — had  prophe- 
sied that  the  Herdsman  who  was  Shepherd 
of  Israel  would  indeed  come  again,  and  that 
within  seven  years.  And  had  he  not  added 
that  if  the  Fair  Lonely  One  were  not  accepted 
of  the  people,  there  would  be  deep  sorrow  for 
one  and  all,  and  a  bitter  wrong  upon  all  the 
isles  of  the  west? 

These  murmurers  now  shook  their  heads 
and  whispered  often.  Of  a  truth,  they  said, 
the  Herdsman  was  come  as  foretold,  and  Alan 
Carmichael  was  blind  indeed  not  to  see  that 


262  Green  Fire 

Ynys,  his  wife,  had  received  a  vision,  and, 
because  of  her  silence,  been  punished  in  the 
death  of  her  first-born. 

But  with  the  white  growth  of  winter,  the 
pleasant,  familiar  intercourse  that  everywhere 
prevailed  wrought  finally  against  the  last 
threadbare  fabric  of  superstition.  Before  the 
glow  of  the  peats  the  sadness  and  gloom  slowly 
dissipated.  It  was  a  new  delight  to  both  Alan 
and  Ynys  to  find  that  the  islanders  could  be  so 
genial  and  almost  gay,  with  a  love  of  laughter 
and  music  and  grotesque  humor  which,  even  in 
the  blithe  little  fishing  haven  of  Ploumaliou, 
they  had  never  seen  surpassed. 

The  cold  months  passed  for  them  in  a  quiet 
content.  That  could  not  be  happiness  upon 
which  was  the  shadow  of  so  much  pain;  but 
there  was  something  akin  to  it  in  the  sweet 
serenity  which  came  like  calm  after  storm. 

Possibly  they  might  have  been  content 
to  remain  in  Rona;  to  find  in  the  island 
their  interest  and  happiness.  Ynys,  in- 
deed, often  longed  to  leave  the  place 
where  she  had  been  so  sadly  disillusioned; 
and  yet  she  did  not  urge  that  the 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  263 

home  at  Caisteal-Rhona  should  be  broken  up. 
While  they  were  still  in  this  state  of  quiet  sus- 
pense, news  came  that  affected  them  strangely. 
They  had  had  no  word  from  Kerival  since 
they  left,  but  one  windy  March  day  a  boat  from 
Borosay  put  into  the  haven  with  letters  from 
Alan's  agents  in  Edinburgh.  Among  them  was 
one  from  the  Abb£  Caesar  de  La  Bruyere,  from 
Kerloek.  From  this  Alan  learned  strange  news. 

On  the  very  day  that  he  and  Ynys  had  left 
Kerival,  Annaik  had  disappeared.  None 
knew  where  she  had  gone.  At  first  it  was 
thought  that  Judik  Kerbastiou  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  her  absence,  but  two  days 
after  she  had  gone  he  was  again  at  Kerival. 
The  house  was  a  place  of  anarchy.  No 
one  knew  whom  to  obey;  what  to  do.  With 
the  Marquise  Lois  in  her  grave,  with  both 
Ynys  and  Annaik  mysteriously  absent  and 
apparently  with  no  intention  to  return,  and 
with  Tristran  the  Silent  more  morosely  taci- 
turn than  his  wont,  and  more  than  ever 
an  invalid,  with  all  this  it  was  difficult 
for  those  in  authority  to  exact  the  habitual 


264  Green  Fire 

duties.  But  in  addition  to  this  there  were  the 
imperious  claims  of  Judik  Kerbastiou,  empha- 
sized by  his  refusal  to  be  addressed  by  any 
other  name  than  the  Sieur  Jud  de  Kerival. 

When,  suddenly,  and  while  quietly  dictat- 
ing a  letter,  the  Marquis  Tristran  died,  it 
seemed  at  last  as  though  Judik's  triumph  had 
come.  For  a  brief  while  he  was  even  ad- 
dressed as  M.  le  Marquis.  But  on  the  noon 
following  that  day  he  had  a  rude  awaken- 
ing. A  notary  from  Ploumaliou  arrived  with 
the  family  lawyers,  and  produced  a  written 
and  signed  confession  on  the  part  of  the 
woman  whom  he  had  called  mother,  that  he 
was  not  her  child  at  all,  that  her  own  child 
was  dead,  and  that  Kerbastiou  was  really  a 
forest  foundling.  As  if  this  were  not  enough, 
the  notary  also  proved,  even  to  the  conviction 
of  Judik,  that  the  written  marriage  testimony 
from  the  parish  books  was  an  impudent  forgery. 

So  the  man  who  had  made  so  abrupt  and 
dramatic  an  appearance  on  the  threshold  of 
Kerival  had,  in  the  very  moment  of  his  tri- 
umph, to  retreat  once  more  to  his  obscurity  as 
a  homeless  woodlander. 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  265 

The  sole  heirs  now  were  Annaik  and  Ynys, 
but  of  neither  was  any  thing  known.  The 
difficulty  was  partially  solved  by  the  abrupt 
appearance  of  Annaik  on  the  day  of  the 
second  conclave. 

For  a  time  thereafter  all  went  well  at  Keri- 
val.  Then  rumor  began  to  spread  mysterious 
whispers  about  the  Lady  Annaik.  She  would 
see  none  of  her  neighbors,  whether  from  far 
or  near,  and  even  the  Sieur  de  Morvan  and 
his  kith  or  kin  were  denied.  Then,  too, 
she  disappeared  for  days  at  a  time.  Some 
thought  she  went  to  Ploumaliou  or  Kerloek, 
some  that  she  had  gone  as  far  away  as  Rennes 
or  St.  Brieuc,  and  a  few  even  imagined  the 
remote  Paris  to  be  her  goal.  None  dreamed 
that  she  had  gone  no  further  than  the  forest 
of  Kerival. 

But  as  the  autumn  waned,  rumors  became 
more  explicit.  Strange  things  were  said  of 
Annaik  de  Kerival.  At  last  the  anxious  Curd 
of  Ploumaliou  took  it  upon  himself  to  assure  all 
who  spoke  to  him  about  the  Lady  of  Kerival 
that  he  had  good  reason  to  believe  she  was 
privately  married.  This,  at  least,  drew  some 


266  Green  Fire 

of  the  poison  out  of  the  gossip  that  had 
arisen. 

Then  a  day  came  when  the  Lady  Annaik 
dismissed  the  servants  at  Kerival,  and  left 
none  in  the  house  save  an  old  gardener  and 
his  wife.  She  was  going  away  for  a  time,  she 
said.  She  went,  and  from  that  day  was  not 
seen  again. 

Then  came,  in  the  Abbe  Caesar  de  La 
Bruyere's  letter,  the  strangest  part  of  the 
mystery. 

Annaik,  ever  since  the  departure  of  Alan 
and  Ynys,  had  been  living  the  forest  life.  All 
her  passionate  sylvan  and  barbaric  instincts 
had  been  suddenly  aroused.  For  the  green 
woods  and  the  forest  ways  she  suffered  an 
intolerable  nostalgia.  But  over  and  above 
this  was  another  reason.  It  seemed,  said  the 
Abbe*  Caesar,  that  she  must  have  returned  the 
rude  love  of  Judik  Kerbastiou.  However  this 
might  be,  she  lived  with  him  for  days  at  a  time, 
and  he  himself  had  a  copy  of  their  marriage  cer- 
tificate made  out  at  a  registrar's  in  a  remote 
little  hill-town  in  the  Montagnes  Noires. 

This  union  with  the   morose  and  strange 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  267 

Judik  Kerbastiou  had  not  been  known  to  any 
of  the  peasants  until  her  trouble  came  to  her. 
When  the  day  was  near  she  did  not  return  to 
Kerival,  but  kept  to  the  gypsy  tent  which  she 
shared  with  Judik.  After  the  birth  of  the 
child,  every  one  knew,  and  every  one  mar- 
velled. It  was  a  madness:  that  was  what  all 
said,  from  Kerloek  to  Ploumaliou. 

But  neither  the  union  nor  the  child  brought 
happiness  to  these  twain,  so  much  at  one  in 
their  woodland  life,  so  hopelessly  alien  in  all 
else.  One  day  a  man  named  louenn  Ker- 
bac'h,  passing  by  the  tent  where  Judik  and 
Annaik  had  taken  shelter  from  a  violent 
thunder-storm,  overheard  a  savage  upbraiding 
on  the  part  of  Kerbastiou.  Annaik  was  his 
wife,  it  was  true — so  he  cried — but  a  wife  who 
had  in  nothing  short  of  madness  renounced 
every  thing,  and  now  would  claim  nothing  of 
her  own  nor  allow  him  to  claim  aught;  a  wife 
whom  he  loved  with  another  madness,  and 
yet  hated  because  she  was  so  hopelessly 
remote  from  himself;  a  wife  who  had  borne 
a  child,  but  a  child  that  had  nothing  of  the 
gypsy  eyes  and  swarthy  darkness  of  Judik 


268  Green  Fire 

Kerbastiou,  but  was  fair,  and  with  skin  as  white 
and  eyes  as  blue  as  those  of  Alan  de  Kerival. 

It  was  this,  and  the  terrible  words  that  were 
said,  which  made  louenn  Kerbac'h  hurry 
onward,  dreading  to  listen  further.  Yet  noth- 
ing that  he  overheard  gave  him  so  strange  a 
fear  as  the  laugh  with  which  Annaik  de  Keri- 
val greeted  a  savage,  screaming  threat  of 
death,  hurled  at  her  because  of  her  silence 
after  the  taunting  accusation  he  had  made  .  .  . 
had  made,  and  defied  her  to  refute. 

None  heard  or  saw  Annaik  Kerbastiou  after 
that  day,  till  the  night  of  the  evening  when 
Judik  came  into  Haut-Kerloek  and  went 
straight  to  Jehan  Rusgol,  the  Maire. 

When  asked  what  he  had  come  for  he  had 
replied  simply:  "The  woman  Annaik  is 
dead."  It  was  commonly  thought  that  he 
had  killed  her,  but  there  was  no  evidence  of 
this,  and  the  end  of  the  inevitable  legal  pro- 
cedure was  the  acquittal  of  the  woodlander. 
From  that  day  the  man  was  rarely  seen  of 
his  fellows,  and  even  then,  for  the  most  part, 
only  by  charcoal-burners  and  others  who  had 
forest  business.  A  few  peasants  knew  where 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  269 

his  hut  was,  and  now  and  again  called  to 
speak  with  him,  or  to  drink  a  cup  of  cider; 
but  oftener  than  not  he  was  absent,  and 
always  with  the  child.  The  boy  had  survived 
his  mother's  death,  and  in  some  strange  way 
had  suddenly  become  so  dear  to  Judik  Ker- 
bastiou  that  the  two  were  inseparable. 

This,  then,  was  the  tidings  which  startled 
Alan  and  Ynys  out  of  their  remote  quiescence. 

The  unexpected  news,  coupled  with  the 
urgent  request  that  both  should  return  to 
Kerival,  if  only  for  a  brief  while,  so  as  to 
prevent  the  property  falling  into  absolute 
ruin,  came  as  a  whip  upon  Alan's  mind.  To 
all  he  said  Ynys  agreed,  and  was  even 
glad  to  leave  Rona  and  return  to  Brittany. 

So  it  was  that,  with  the  first  days  of  April, 
they  bade  farewell  to  Ian  and  his  sister,  whom 
they  left  at  Caisteal-Rhona,  which  was  hence- 
forth to  be  their  home,  and  to  all  upon  the 
island,  and  set  forth  in  a  fishing  smack  for 
Borosay. 

It  was  not  till  the  last  of  the  precipices  of 
Rona  was  lost  to  view  behind  the  south  head- 


270  Green  Fire 

land  of  Borosay  that  Ynys  clearly  realized  the 
deep  gladness  with  which  she  left  the  lonely 
Isle  of  the  Caves.  That  it  would  have  been 
impossible  for  her  to  live  there  long  she  was 
now  well  assured ;  and  for  Alan,  too,  the  life 
was  not  suitable.  For  the  north,  and  for  the 
islands,  they  would  ever  have  a  deep  feeling, 
almost  sacred  in  its  intensity;  but  all  that 
had  happened  made  living  there  a  thing  diffi- 
cult and  painful  for  them,  and  moreover  each, 
though  Ynys  most,  missed  that  green  wood- 
land beauty,  the  ceaseless  forest  charm, 
which  made  the  very  memory  of  Kerival  so 
fragrant. 

They  went  away,  then,  not  as  travellers  who 
fare  far  with  no  thought  of  return,  but  rather 
as  pilgrims  returning  homeward  from  a  shrine 
sacred  to  them  by  profound  and  intimate 
associations. 

That  was,  indeed,  for  them  a  strange  home- 
going.  From  the  first  there  was  something 
dreamlike,  unreal,  about  that  southward  flight; 
in  the  long  sail  across  Hebrid  seas,  calm  as 
glass  until  the  south  headlands  of  Mull  were 
passed,  and  then  storm-swept;  in  the  rapid 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  271 

journey  across  Scotland  and  through  England; 
and  in  the  recrossing  of  that  narrow  sea 
which  had  once  seemed  to  them  a  gulf  of 
ultimate  division. 

But  when  once  more  they  saw  the  grotesque 
bulbous  spire  of  Ploumaliou  rising  above  the 
sand-dunes  by  which,  from  St.  Malo,  they 
approached  the  dear,  familiar  country,  all  this 
uncertainty  went  from  them.  With  light 
hearts  they  realized  it  was  indeed  true;  that 
they  were  free  at  last  of  a  life  for  which  they 
were  now  unfitted,  and  that  the  lost  threads 
in  the  maze  had  been  found. 

By  their  own  wish  the  home-coming  was  so 
private  that  none  knew  of  it  save  the  doctor, 
the  Curd,  the  lawyer  who  accompanied  them 
from  Ploumaliou,  and  the  old  gardener  and 
his  wife.  As  they  neared  the  chateau  from 
the  north,  Alan  and  Ynys  alighted  from  the 
dishevelled  carriage  which  was  the  sole 
vehicle  of  which  Ploumaliou  could  boast. 
M.  Auriol  could  drive  on  alone ;  for  themselves, 
they  chose  to  reach  their  home  by  the  dunes 
and  scattered  pines,  and  thence  by  the  yew 
close  behind  the  manor-house. 


272  Green  Fire 

The  day  was  windless  and  of  a  serene 
beauty.  Ever  since  noon  the  few  clouds,  sus- 
pensive in  the  azure  flood  like  islets  of  snow, 
had  waned  till  they  were  faint  and  light  as 
blown  swan's-down,  then  filmy  as  vapor  lifted 
against  the  sun,  and  at  last  were  no  more 
visible;  there  had  been  the  same  unfathomable 
depths  of  azure,  through  which  the  tides  of 
light  imperceptibly  ebbed  from  the  zenith. 
The  sea,  too,  was  of  a  vivid  though  motion- 
less blue,  save  where  luminous  with  a  white 
sheen  or  wrought  with  violet  shadows  and 
straits  of  amethyst.  Upon  the  land  lay 
a  golden  peace.  A  richer  glow  involved 
the  dunes,  where  the  pine-shadows  cast 
long,  motionless  blue  shapes.  As,  hand  in 
hand,  Ynys  and  Alan  moved  athwart  the 
pine  glade  whence  they  could  pass  at  once 
either  westward  into  the  cypress  alley  or  east- 
ward through  the  yew  close,  they  stopped 
instinctively.  Beyond  them  rose  the  chim- 
neys and  gables  of  the  House  of  Kerival, 
strangely  still  and  remote,  for  all  their  famil- 
iar look.  What  a  brief  while  ago  it  seemed 
since  he  and  she  had  walked  under  these  pines, 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  273 

wrought  by  the  first  ecstasy  of  their  virginal 
love.  Then,  those  who  now  lay  quiet  in  the 
darkness  of  the  earth  were  alive;  Lois  de 
Kerival,  with  her  repressed,  passionate  heart 
still  at  last;  the  Marquis  Tristran,  with  the 
young  grass  growing  soft  and  green  over  his 
bitterness;  Alasdair  Carmichael,  with  the 
echo  of  the  island  waves  stilled  under  the 
quiet  bells  of  the  little  church  which  guarded 
the  grave-yard  of  St.  Blaise;  and  Annaik — 
poor  lost  waif  of  beautiful  womanhood,  sub- 
merged forever  in  the  green  woods  she  loved 
so  well,  and  sleeping  so  sound  a  sleep  at  last 
in  an  unmarked  hollow  beneath  an  ancient 
tree  in  some  obscure  glade  or  alley. 

A  shadow  was  in  Alan's  eyes — a  deeper 
shadow  than  that  caused  by  thought  of  the 
dead  who  lay  heedless  and  listless,  at  once  so 
near  and  such  depths  away — a  deeper  shadow 
than  that  cast  by  memory  of  the  crime  which 
overlay  the  past. 

As  his  eyes  wandered  to  the  cypress  alley, 
his  heart  knew  again  a  pain  almost  beyond 
endurance;  a  pain  that  only  the  peace  of 
Rona  had  translated  into  a  strong  acquies- 

18 


274  Green  Fire 

cence  in  the  irrevocable  past — a  pain  be- 
come less  haunting  under  the  stress  of  all 
which  had  happened  in  connection  with  the 
Herdsman,  till  it  knew  a  bitter  resurrection 
when  Alan  came  to  read  of  the  tragic  fate  of 
the  woman  who  had  loved  him. 

Through  some  wayward  impulse  Ynys 
abruptly  asked  him  to  go  with  her  through 
the  cypress  alley,  so  that  they  should  ap- 
proach the  chateau  from  the  forest. 

Silently,  and  with  downcast  eyes,  he  walked 
by  her  side,  his  hand  still  in  hers.  But  his 
thoughts  were  with  the  dead  woman,  on  the 
bitter  hazard  of  love,  and  on  what  lay,  forever 
secret,  between  Annaik  and  himself.  And  as 
he  communed  with  himself,  in  an  austere  pain 
of  remembrance,  he  came  to  see  more  and 
more  clearly  that  in  some  strange  way  the 
Herdsman  episode,  with  all  involved  therein, 
was  no  arbitrary  chance  in  the  maze  of  life, 
but  a  definite  working  out  of  destiny.  None 
could  ever  know  what  Annaik  had  foretold, 
had  known,  on  that  terrible  night  when  the 
silence  of  the  moonlit  peace  was  continuously 
rent  by  the  savage  screams  of  the  peacocks; 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  275 

nor  could  any  other  than  himself  discern, 
against  the  dark  tapestries  of  what  veiled 
his  inner  life,  the  weaving  of  an  inextricable 
web. 

It  was  difficult  for  him  to  believe  that  she 
was  dead — Annaik,  who  had  always  been  so 
radiantly,  superbly  alive.  Now  there  was  dust 
upon  that  wonderful  bronze  hair;  darkness 
upon  those  lambent  eyes;  no  swift  pulse  beat- 
ing in  the  red  tide  in  the  veins;  a  frost  against 
the  heart.  What  a  burden  it  had  carried, 
poor  heart!  "Oh,  Annaik,  Annaik!"  he  mut- 
tered below  his  breath,  "what  a  hard  wayfaring 
because  of  a  passion  crucified  upon  the  bitter 
tree  of  despair;  what  a  fierce,  silent,  unwav- 
ering tyranny  over  the  rebellious  voices  cry- 
ing unceasingly  from  every  nerve,  or  swept 
this  way  and  that  on  every  stormy  tide  of 
blood." 

That  Annaik  who  loved  the  forest  so  pass- 
ing well,  and  in  whom  the  green  fire  of  life 
flamed  consumingly,  should  no  longer  be  alive 
to  rejoice  in  the  glory  of  spring,  now  once 
again  everywhere  involving  the  brown  earth 
and  the  purple  branches,  was  an  almost  un- 


276  Green  Fire 

realizable  thing.  To  walk  in  that  cypress 
alley  once  more;  to  cross  that  open  glade 
with  its  single  hawthorn;  to  move  in  the  dark 
green  shadow  of  that  yew  close;  to  do  this  and 
remember  all  that  Annaik  had  suffered,  and 
that  now  she  lay  quiet  and  beyond  all  pain  or 
joy  to  touch  her,  was  to  Alan  a  thought 
almost  too  poignant  to  be  borne. 

It  was  with  an  effort  he  answered  Ynys 
when  she  spoke,  and  it  was  in  silence  that 
they  entered  the  house  which  was  now  their 
home,  and  where — years  ago,  as  it  seemed — 
they  had  been  young  and  happy. 

But  that  night  he  sat  alone  for  a  time  in  the 
little  room  in  the  tower  which  rose  from  the 
east  wing  of  Kerival — the  room  he  had  fitted 
up  as  an  observatory,  similar,  on  a  smaller 
scale,  to  that  in  the  Tour  de  1'Ile  where  he  had 
so  deeply  studied  the  mystery  of  the  starry 
world.  Here  he  had  dreamed  many  dreams, 
and  here  he  dreamed  yet  another. 

For  out  of  his  thoughts  about  Annaik  and 
Ynys  arose  a  fuller,  a  deeper  conception  of 
Womanhood.  How  well  he  remembered  a 
legend  that  Ynys  had  told  him  on  Rona:  a 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  277 

legend  of  a  fair  spirit  which  goes  to  and  fro 
upon  the  world,  the  Weaver  of  Tears.  He 
loves  the  pathways  of  sorrow.  His  voice  is 
low  and  sweet,  with  a  sound  like  the  bubbling 
of  waters  in  that  fount  whence  the  rainbows 
rise.  His  eyes  are  in  quiet  places,  and  in  the 
dumb  pain  of  animals  as  in  the  agony  of  the 
human  brain:  but  most  he  is  found,  oftenest 
are  the  dewy  traces  of  his  feet,  in  the  heart  of 
woman. 

Tears,  tears!  They  are  not  the  saltest  tears 
which  are  on  the  lids  of  those  who  weep. 
Fierce  tears  there  are,  hot  founts  of  pain  in 
the  mind  of  many  a  man,  that  are  never  shed, 
but  slowly  crystallize  in  furrows  on  brow  and 
face,  and  in  deep  weariness  in  the  eyes;  fierce 
tears,  unquenchable,  in  the  heart  of  many  a 
woman,  whose  brave  eyes  look  fearlessly  at 
life;  whose  dauntless  courage  goes  forth  daily 
to  die,  but  never  to  be  vanquished. 

In  truth  the  Weaver  of  Tears  abides  in 
the  heart  of  Woman.  O  Mother  of  Pity,  of 
Love,  of  deep  Compassion!  with  thee  it  is  to 
yearn  forever  for  the  ideal  human;  to  bring 
the  spiritual  love  into  fusion  with  human 


278  Green  Fire 

desire;  endlessly  to  strive,  endlessly  to  fail; 
always  to  hope  in  spite  of  disillusion;  to  love 
unswervingly  against  all  baffling  and  mis- 
understanding, and  even  forgetfulness!  O 
Woman,  whose  eyes  are  always  stretched  out 
to  her  erring  children,  whose  heart  is  big 
enough  to  cover  all  the  little  children  in  the 
world,  and  suffer  with  their  sufferings,  and 
joy  with  their  joys!  Woman,  whose  other 
divine  names  are  Strength  and  Patience,  who 
is  no  girl,  no  Virgin,  because  she  has  drunk 
too  deeply  of  the  fount  of  Life  to  be  very 
young  or  very  joyful.  Upon  her  lips  is  the 
shadowy  kiss  of  death;  in  her  eyes  is  the 
shadow  of  birth.  She  is  the  veiled  interpreter 
of  the  two  mysteries.  Yet  what  joyousness  like 
hers,  when  she  wills;  because  of  her  unwaver- 
ing hope,  her  inexhaustible  fount  of  love? 

So  it  was  that,  just  as  Alan  had  long  recog- 
nized as  a  deep  truth  how  the  spiritual  nature 
of  man  has  been  revealed  to  humanity  in  many 
divine  incarnations,  so  he  had  come  to  believe 
that  the  spiritual  nature  of  woman  has  been 
revealed  in  the  many  Marys,  sisters  of  the 
Beloved,  who  have  had  the  keys  of  the  soul  and 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  279 

the  heart  in  their  unconscious  keeping.  In  this 
exquisite  truth  he  knew  a  fresh  and  vivid 
hope.  Was  it  all  a  dream  that  Ynys  had 
dreamed,  far  away  among  the  sea  arcades  of 
Rona?  Had  the  Herdsman,  the  Shepherd  of 
Souls,  indeed  revealed  to  her  that  a  child  was 
to  be  born  who  would  be  one  of  the  redeemers 
of  the  world?  A  Woman  Saviour,  who  would 
come  near  to  all  of  us,  because  in  her  heart 
would  be  the  blind  tears  of  the  child,  and  the 
bitter  tears  of  the  man,  and  the  patient  tears 
of  the  woman;  who  would  be  the  Compassion- 
ate One,  with  no  end  or  aim  but  compassion — 
with  no  doctrine  to  teach,  no  way  to  show, 
but  only  deep,  wonderful,  beautiful,  inalien- 
able, unquenchable  compassion? 

For,  in  truth,  there  is  the  divine,  eternal 
feminine  counterpart  to  the  divine,  eternal 
male,  and  both  are  needed  to  explain  the 
mystery  of  the  dual  Spirit  within  us — the 
mystery  of  the  Two  in  One,  so  infinitely 
stranger  and  more  wonderful  than  that  triune 
life  which  the  blind  teachers  of  the  blind  have 
made  a  rock  of  stumbling  and  offence  out  of  a 
truth  clear  and  obvious  as  noon. 


280  Green  Fire 

We  speak  of  Mother  Nature,  but  we  do  not 
discern  the  living  truth  behind  our  words. 
How  few  of  us  have  the  vision  of  this  great 
brooding  Mother,  whose  garment  is  the  earth 
and  sea,  whose  head  is  pillowed  among  the 
stars;  she  who,  with  Death  and  Sleep  as  her 
familiar  shapes,  soothes  and  rests  all  the 
weariness  of  the  world,  from  the  waning  leaf 
to  the  beating  pulse;  from  the  brief  span  of 
a  human  heart  to  the  furrowing  of  granite 
brows  by  the  uninterrupted  sun,  the  hounds 
of  rain  and  wind,  and  the  untrammelled  airs 
of  heaven. 

Not  cruel,  relentless,  impotently  anarchic, 
chaotically  potent,  this  Mater  Genetrix.  We 
see  her  thus,  who  are  flying  threads  in  the 
loom  she  weaves.  But  she  is  patient,  abiding, 
certain,  inviolate,  and  silent  ever.  It  is  only 
when  we  come  to  this  vision  of  her  whom  we 
call  Isis  or  Hera  or  Orchil,  or  one  of  a  hundred 
other  names,  our  unknown  Earth-Mother, 
that  men  and  women  will  know  each  other 
aright,  and  go  hand  in  hand  along  the  road  of 
Life  without  striving  to  crush,  to  subdue,  to 
usurp,  to  retaliate,  to  separate. 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  281 

Ah,  fair  vision  of  humanity  to  come!  man 
and  woman  side  by  side,  sweet,  serene,  true, 
simple,  natural,  fulfilling  Earth's  and  Heaven's 
behests;  unashamed,  unsophisticated,  un- 
affected, each  to  each  and  for  each;  children 
of  one  mother,  inheritors  of  a  like  destiny, 
and,  at  the  last,  artificers  of  an  equal  fate. 

Pondering  thus,  Alan  rose  and  looked  out 
into  the  night.  In  that  great  stillness,  wherein 
the  moonlight  lay  like  the  visible  fragrance  of 
the  earth,  he  gazed  long  and  intently.  How 
shadowy,  now,  were  these  lives  that  had  so 
lately  palpitated  in  this  very  place;  "now 
strange  their  silence,  their  incommunicable 
knowledge,  their  fathomless  peace! 

Was  it  all  lost  .  .  .  the  long  endurance  of 
pain,  the  pangs  of  sorrow?  If  so,  what  was 
the  lesson  of  life?  Surely,  to  live  with  sweet 
serenity  and  gladness,  content  against  the  in- 
evitable hour.  There  is  solace  of  a  kind  in 
the  idea  of  a  common  end,  of  that  terrible 
processional  march  of  life  wherein  the  myriad 
is  momentary,  and  the  immeasurable  is  but  a 
passing  shadow.  But,  alas!  it  is  only  solace 
of  a  kind;  for  what  heart  that  has  beat  to  the 


282  Green  Fire 

pulse  of  love  can  relinquish  the  sweet  dream 
of  life,  and  what  coronal  can  philosophy  put 
upon  the  brows  of  youth  in  place  of  eternity? 

No,  no!  of  this  he  felt  sure.  In  the  Beauty 
of  the  World  lies  the  ultimate  redemption  of 
our  mortality.  When  we  shall  become  at  one 
with  nature,  in  a  sense  profounder  even  than 
the  poetic  imaginings  'of  most  of  us,  we  shall 
understand  what  now  we  fail  to  discern.  The 
arrogance  of  those  who  would  have  the  stars 
as  candles  for  our  night,  and  the  universe  as 
a  pleasaunce  for  our  thought,  will  be  as  impos- 
sible as  the  blind  fatuity  of  those  who  say  we 
are  of  dust,  briefly  vitalized,  that  shall  be  dust 
again,  with  no  fragrance  saved  from  the  rude 
bankruptcy  of  life,  no  beauty  raised  up  against 
the  sun  to  bloom  anew. 

It  is  no  idle  dream,  this;  no  idle  dream  that 
we  are  a  perishing  clan  among  the  sons  of  God, 
because  of  this  slow  waning  of  our  joy,  of  our 
passionate  delight  in  the  Beauty  of  the  World. 
We  have  been  unable  to  look  out  upon  the 
shining  of  our  star,  for  the  vision  overcomes 
us;  and  we  have  used  veils  which  we  call 
"scenery,"  "picturesqueness,"  and  the  like — 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  283 

poor,  barren  words  that  are  so  voiceless  and 
remote  before  the  rustle  of  leaves  and  the  lap 
of  water;  before  the  ancient  music  of  the 
wind,  and  all  the  sovran  eloquence  of  the 
tides  of  light.  But  a  day  may  come — nay, 
shall  surely  come — when  indeed  the  poor  and 
the  humble  shall  inherit  the  earth;  they  who 
have  not  made  a  league  with  temporal  evils, 
and  out  of  whose  heart  shall  arise  the  deep 
longing,  that  shall  become  universal,  of  the 
Renewal  of  Youth. 

Often,  in  the  days  that  followed  their  re- 
turn to  Kerival,  Alan  and  Ynys  talked  of  these 
hopes  and  fears.  And,  gradually,  out  of  the 
beauty  of  the  spring,  out  of  the  intensity  of 
the  green  fire  of  life  which  everywhere  flamed 
in  the  brown  earth,  on  the  hills,  in  the  waters, 
in  the  heart  and  brain  of  man,  in  the  whole 
living,  breathing  world,  was  born  of  them  a  new 
joy.  They  were  as  the  prince  and  princess 
of  the  fairy  tales,  for  whom  every  thing  was 
wonderful.  Hand  in  hand  they  entered  into 
the  kingdom  of  youth.  It  was  theirs,  thence- 
forth; and  all  the  joy  of  the  world. 


284  Green  Fire 

To  live,  and  love,  and  be  full  of  a  deep  joy, 
a  glad  content,  a  supporting  hope!  What  des- 
tiny among  the  stars  fairer  than  this? 

They  would  be  harbingers  of  joy.  That 
was  what  they  said,  one  to  another.  They 
would  be  so  glad  with  sweet  life  that  others 
would  rejoice;  out  of  their  strength  they 
would  strengthen,  out  of  their  joy  they  would 
gladden,  out  of  their  peace  they  would  com- 
fort, out  of  their  knowledge  they  would  be 
compassionate. 

Nor  was  their  dream  an  unfulfilled  vision. 
As  the  weeks  slipped  into  months,  and  the 
months  lapsed  into  years,  Alan  and  Ynys 
realized  all  that  it  is  possible  for  man  and 
woman  to  know  of  happiness.  Happiness, 
duties,  claims  held  them  to  Kerival;  but 
there  they  lived  in  fair  comradeship  with  their 
fellows,  with  the  green  forest,  with  all  that 
nature  had  to  give  them  for  their  delight 
through  wind  and  wave,  through  shadow  and 
shine,  through  changing  seasons  and  the  ex- 
quisite hazard  of  every  passing  hour. 

To  them  both,  too,  came  the  added  joy 
which  they  feared  had  been  forfeited  at  Rona. 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  285 

When  Ynys  felt  the  child's  hands  on  her 
breast,  she  was  as  one  transformed  by  a 
light  out  of  heaven.  Alan,  looking  at  mother 
and  child,  understood,  with  all  his  passion  for 
the  intimate  wonder  and  mystery  of  nature, 
the  deeper  truth  in  the  words  of  one  of  the 
greatest  of  men  .  .  .  "the  Souls  of  the 
Living  are  the  Beauty  of  the  World." 

That  sometimes  a  shadow  fell  was  inevi- 
table. None  ever  so  dusked  the  sun-way  of 
Alan's  mind  as  when,  remote  in  the  forest  of 
Kerival,  he  came  upon  the  unkempt  figure 
of  Judik  Kerbastiou,  often  carrying  upon  his 
shoulder  a  little  child  whose  happy  laughter 
was  sweet  to  hear,  in  whose  tawny  hair  was  a 
light  such  as  had  gleamed  in  Annaik's,  and 
whose  eyes  were  blue  as  the  north  seas  and 
as  Alan's  were. 

Often,  too,  Alan,  alone  in  his  observatory, 
where  he  was  wont  to  spend  much  of  his 
time,  knew  that  strange  nostalgia  of  the  mind 
for  impossible  things.  Then,  wrought  for  a 
while  from  his  vision  of  green  life,  and  flamed 
by  another  green  fire  than  that  born  of  the 
earth,  he  dreamed  his  dream.  With  him,  the 


286  Green  Fire 

peopled  solitude  of  night  was  a  concourse  of 
confirming  voices.  He  did  not  dread  the 
silence  of  the  stars — the  cold  remoteness  of 
the  stellar  fire. 

In  that  other  watch-tower  in  Paris,  where 
he  had  spent  the  best  hours  of  his  youth,  he 
had  loved  that  nightly  watch  of  the  con- 
stellations. Now,  as  then,  in  the  pulse  of  the 
planets  he  found  assurances  which  Faith  had 
not  given  him.  In  the  vast,  majestic  order  of 
that  nocturnal  march,  that  diurnal  retreat,  he 
had  learned  the  law  of  the  whirling  leaf  and 
the  falling  star;  of  the  slow,  aeon-delayed 
comet  and  of  the  slower  wane  of  solar  fires. 
Looking  with  visionary  eyes  into  that  congre- 
gation of  stars,  he  realized,  not  the  littleness 
of  the  human  dream  but  its  divine  impulsion. 
It  was  only  when,  after  long  vigils  into  the 
quietudes  of  night,  he  turned  his  gaze  from 
the  palaces  of  the  unknown,  and  thought  of 
the  baffled,  fretful  swarming  in  the  cities  of 
men,  that  his  soul  rose  in  revolt  against  the 
sublime  ineptitude  of  man's  spiritual  leaguer 
against  destiny. 

Destiny — An  Dan — it  was  a  word  familiar 


The  Beauty  of  the  World  287 

to  him  since  childhood,  when  first  he  had 
heard  it  on  the  lips  of  old  Ian  Macdonald. 
And  once,  on  the  eve  of  the  Feast  of  Paschal, 
when  Alan  had  asked  Daniel  Dare  what  was 
the  word  which  the  stars  spelled  from  zenith 
to  nadir,  the  astronomer  had  turned  and 
answered  simply,  "  C'est  le  Destin"  But 
Alan  was  of  the  few  to  whom  this  talismanic 
word  opens  lofty  perspectives,  even  while  it 
obscures  those  paltry  vistas  which  we  deem 
unending  and  dignify  with  vain  hopes  and 
void  immortalities. 


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